


The Ice Prince

by revampired



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beating, Codependency, Dark, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Prostitution, Gang Rape, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Mutual Pining, Past Rape/Non-con, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, The Golden Bird AU, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 92,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10095662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revampired/pseuds/revampired
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki is the shy, nervous, completely illegitimate heir to Lord Cialdini, chief adviser to the king, a position he managed to acquire after a life of hardship and heartbreak. But the past has a way of coming back to haunt him, and a chance trip to a city whorehouse finds him reunited with his boyhood love - a slave named Victor that Yuuri had long believed to be dead.Yuuri immediately realizes he needs to somehow free Victor if they're going to be together, but nothing is as simple as it should be - and in a cutthroat political court, no one is as kind as they seem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Golden Bird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/769830) by [pierrot_dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams/pseuds/pierrot_dreams). 



> Some quick housekeeping notes before you read:
> 
> 1\. Some rape scenes get pretty graphic, and there is a lot of implied/referenced non-con involving underage characters. However, nothing involving underage characters is graphic or explicit.
> 
> 2\. Victuuri is endgame here, but there's a lot of good old-fashioned sleeping around for political gain, mostly involving Yuuri, Phichit, and Celestino. And, of course, since Victor is a sex slave he has sex with lots of randos. 
> 
> 3\. This fic is based on the work "The Golden Bird" by pierrot_dreams on ao3, but you don't need to know the work to read the fic. Things will diverge somewhat in this to fit the YOI characters (I couldn't make anyone here as cruel as the people in her work are, I even made up an OC to be the main antagonist), but I'm writing this in a large part because it's been 2.5 years since the work has been updated and I need some goddamn catharsis. :'((((
> 
> 4\. Seriously, read the tags. It's gonna get bad before it gets better. I've been mulling around how to finish this - the original work this is based on cuts off after the biggest revelation of the story, though I do have some endings in mind for this. I think I'll probably split this into two works, so fair warning, this might end in a cliffhanger, too. :P 
> 
> That should be it, I'll add more as I think of it. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

The sweet, delicate champagne had long since lost its subtlety on Yuuri’s tongue. The art of detecting flavors was mostly nonsense, in his humble opinion, but as the evening wore on he stopped attempting to spit out platitudes like _hint of lemon_ and _refreshing, cool flavor._ He was so drunk that Phichit could have been foisting cheap, two penny wine on him and he wouldn’t have noticed - in fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that’s exactly what his friend was doing.

Phichit leaned against him, nuzzled his nose against his collarbone, and made soft, sweet noises into his neck.

Where were they, again?

Yuuri blinked against some bright, artificial light bouncing off gaudy, golden curtains and shimmering frescoes of - was that…?

A bright flush that had nothing to do with alcohol lit up Yuuri’s cheeks. Painted in gleaming white against lush, too-green grass were pornographic scenes of sensual pleasure - lascivious, sultry bodies wrapped around eachother.

Men with too-large cocks, women whose breasts spilled out from unlaced corsets, and, to Yuuri’s distaste, men and women so young they still maintained a sense of androgyny even as their lips were drawn sucking, their bodies contorted along with the adults.

Phichit had dragged him to a _brothel_ . And not just any private, respectable establishment - the Ice Castle, a performance hall so lewd that it never failed to be _completely booked_. Yuuri glared down at his younger friend, still clinging to him and whispering into his neck, and wondered how he’d even gotten them in.

He should’ve known better than to expect anything reasonable from Phichit, _especially_ during festival season. Last year during the week of condoned public drunkenness masquerading as a religious holiday, they’d spent a night in jail after sneaking into an upscale public bath house frequented by the highest nobility after both losing their papers identifying them as House Cialdini.

Or, well, he’d spent the night in jail. Phichit had spent the night getting fucked by the city’s royal elite after seducing the guard - something Yuuri flatly refused to do. He’d gotten out by giving the on-duty officer a hand job the next morning, though.

Somehow, a visit to Ice Castle was still more embarrassing.

“I have a surprise for you,” Phichit slurred at him, hands on Yuuri’s stomach, moving dangerously close to his crotch.

“What is it?” Yuuri slurred right back. Were the people in the frescoes moving, or was it just him?

“If I _told_ you,” Phichit chided into the crook of his neck, as though explaining to a child, “it wouldn’t be a _surprise_.”

A nobleman behind him boomed out a laugh as he spotted a sign. “Oh, glory, they’re performing _The Rape of Ganymede_ \- it’s one of their best, especially performed by their new star dancer. It could stir the cock of an ancient drunk back to life.”

Yuuri went cold.

 _“I hate that story,”_ _Yuuri was grumbling as his friend pirouetted in front of him, long silver hair swirling around him like silk._

_“Why?” he asked, pausing en pointe, face flushed and beautiful._

_“It’s so sad,” Yuuri responded, nibbling at a tea cookie and trying to suck in his stomach so it was flat like the dancer’s. “Ganymede didn’t deserve that.”_

_“He didn’t.” The voice echoed like a far-away dream. “But he’s saved in the end by Melchior, isn’t he?”_

_“Mm,” Yuuri responded noncommittally, eyes focusing on a blotchy purple bruise underneath the dancer’s ice blue eye._

_“You’ll be my Melchior, won’t you?”_

Yuuri’s eyes shot open. Someone was tugging at the sleeve of his rumpled jacket. For a moment, Yuuri wondered if one of the children from the fresco had come to life - a teenager of no more than fifteen with chin-length, silky blonde hair was staring up at him sulkily.

“I asked if you’d be willing to play the part of Melchior tonight,” the child slave sniffed, bracelets clinking as he placed his hands on his thin hips.

Yuuri’s mouth went dry. Phichit was smirking up at him, black eyes glittering devilishly.

 _So, that’s your surprise,_ Yuuri thought ruefully. _I get to play the most sought after part this side of the kingdom, and you get to watch me have sex with a stranger in front of an audience of people._

He swallowed thickly. If he weren’t _completely plastered_ , he would have refused outright. A part of him twinged, though - this was not an opportunity just _anyone_ could acquire. And really, during festival season, wasn’t it practically necessary to engage in some act of public debauchery?

The young slave was looking up at him impatiently. _Insolently_ , a small part of his mind supplied, and he banished away the fear that crept out from a hidden corner of his memory. Yuuri noticed a small flyaway sticking out from a braid, wrapped around his head like a golden crown, and ached to tuck it back in.

_“Do I have any flyaways? Master always gets so mad if my hair isn’t perfect…”_

“Okay,” Yuuri said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Phichit crowed with joy. The young slave nodded, huffed, and ran off.

“Master Yakov is getting soft, letting a slave with an attitude like that run around,” a nobleman with an ugly black birthmark on his nose whispered to Yuuri conspiratorially, “I’d like to rent _him_ out for a night. Teach him some manners, eh?”

Yuuri felt sick. He didn’t respond, a flash of tear-filled blue eyes popping up from the recesses of his mind, and his hand flew to his mouth instinctively.

“Are you alright?” Phichit purred up at him.

Yuuri nodded, though his stomach churned for reasons completely unrelated to the alcohol.

“I hate this story,” he murmured.

The audience lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and Yuuri wasn’t even sure Phichit had heard him.

* * *

 

The decor on stage was sparse, but what little was there was as ostentatious as the scenes on the walls. Gold-leaf edged leaves and a curved altar in the middle of the stage with a nubile, naked man carved into it, erect cock seeming somehow cold and painfully hard.

Dancers flitted onto the stage to the light, airy trill of a flute, and Yuuri recognized the young slave from before.

The dancers were naked, save for dangling jewelry with silver bells at the end and loose, floaty silk, see through and draped around their hips. Yuuri couldn’t help but stare in wonder at the blonde, the grace with which he lifted his leg in an elegant pirouette, as though he’d been classically trained. In contrast, his suggestive hip gyrations seemed out of place, especially with the grim expression on his face.

The music changed to something more sinister, and the dancers feigned ignorance, continuing to flutter around.

Yuuri winced - he knew what was coming, even through his drunken haze.

For a moment, Yuuri thought the man lumbering onto the stage was an animatronic. He was huge, grotesque, thick arms ending in fat, meaty hands - and the _thing_ between his thighs seemed as unimaginably big as the rest of him.

Yuuri wasn’t sure it was real at first - it could’ve been a particularly large dildo, just for the show. He’d grown up in and around dance halls, and he knew they kept those things around.

It certainly looked real, though. It swung between his legs like it was real. The nearest dancer shied away from it like it was real.

The man was playing a satyr, a ruthless beast of the forest, preying upon any beautiful young men he came across. His mask was covered in curled faux-fur which, in the hot white stage lights, seemed fused with his skin.

One by one, he picked up the dancers, now fluttering around in a dance that was clearly meant to mime panic, and sat them upon his fat cock. He didn’t penetrate, just held the boys up with his fat hands and slid their lower bodies along his member. They moved their hips in a way that was supposed to be erotic - Yuuri noticed other people in the room cupping themselves through their pants.

Phichit was asleep on his shoulder and Yuuri rolled his eyes.

When the satyr picked up the young blonde slave, it seemed to Yuuri that he pressed him down on his tip with more force than the others, and he thought he heard a cry of pain from the stage. No one else reacted, though - was he hearing things?

The music changed again, this time turning light, airy, gentle. An angel descended from above, a silver mask covering his face, long silver hair strung up in a braid that bounced off his shoulder as he twirled. _Ganymede_.

The remaining boy dancers floated offstage, a few of them with an uncomfortable looking limp, and the satyr made a show of shifting into the shadows.

For a moment, the stage was clear, save for the so-called star of the Ice Castle. The Ice Prince, they called him, which lead to many bawdy jokes about the so-called Ice Prince’s lack of virginity.

Yuuri couldn’t help but admire the way he moved, the grace in his limbs, accented by the floaty silver neglige wrapped around him. It tugged at his heart, strangely - there was something familiar about the way he moved, the swirl of the silver braid with bells woven through it.

Before he could linger on that, though, the satyr leapt out from the bushes, and the music turned flighty and frantic. The angel and the beast entered a dangerous game of cat and mouse on the stage, a game Yuuri knew the angel wouldn’t win. He just hoped they wouldn’t drag it out too long.

The satyr grabbed the dancer and tossed him to the stage, before the carved white altar. He scrambled back with a fear that seemed a little too real for Yuuri’s taste, and he scowled at the laughter around him.

Ganymede kicked out theatrically and the satyr grabbed his porcelain ankle, dragging him forward. He straddled Ganymede from behind his head, fat cock hanging low over his face, and he guided it to Ganymede’s plush pink lips.

Yuuri watched in awe as Ganymede accomodated the huge member, how his lips opened wider and wider as the satyr pushed his length further in. The view had been carefully considered, and Ganymede lay with legs splayed out so the audience could see his limp cock, his ass, as the satyr fucked his face with brutal thrusts. There was a slight bulge in his throat from the satyr’s tip, moving up and down.

Ganymede coughed as the satyr pulled out, a string of precome and saliva clinging to his lips. The coughing was forceful enough that Yuuri knew it was genuine, and he winced in sympathy as the satyr dragged Ganymede to drape him over the altar.

The satyr slapped his bare ass hard enough to leave a flaming red mark, then pulled his cheek back to expose his pink, twitching hole. This drew a howl of laughter from the audience, and without any further preparation, the satyr plunged into him.

Yuuri couldn’t see Ganymede’s face at this point, but he heard the sharp cry that echoed through the room, cutting off into a series of choking gasps as the satyr fucked him brutally. The satyr pulled out for just a moment, taking the time to show the audience Ganymede’s now red, slick hole, lifting one lithe leg up until Ganymede was doing a standing split to expose as much as possible.

He leaned over Ganymede and Ganymede brought his elbow up in a sharp burst, hitting the satyr in the neck. Yuuri smiled, but his grin quickly contorted into a wince as the satyr shoved himself back inside with Ganymede’s leg still stuck up in the air.

Yuuri had enough dance training to know that position must’ve been excruciating, even for someone as flexible as this dancer seemed to be, and his body clenched and tightening around the cock inside him. The noises he was making were pained, high-pitched.

Someone was tugging his sleeve again, distracting him. The young slave from earlier stared up at him, somehow even more sullen than before.

“If my _master_ would be so inclined,” he said, spasming into a curtsey, “I would be obliged to take him backstage to prepare for his role.”

Yuuri noticed the change in his tone as he addressed him. Phichit was fast asleep on the table, but Yuuri figured that was safer than letting him get into any drunken shenanigans at the whorehouse. He followed the boy into a simple dressing room, just off the stage, so he could still see the satyr ravishing Ganymede under the hot stage lights.

The grunting, the cries were even louder from here. They pounded at Yuuri’s head along with the alcohol he’d drunk. He ventured a glance at the obscene scene playing out before him. Ganymede was on his back now, legs still split, long hair dripping like molten silver over the altar.

Even with his basic knowledge of dance-halls, he struggled to imagine how anyone could accommodate something so big, even with all the preparation in the world. Indeed, Ganymede’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth parted to allow desperate pants and gasps to burst from it. Yuuri saw the sheen of sweat dripping down his back and had a sneaking suspicion it had nothing to do with the heat of the stage.

He frowned in Phichit’s direction, where he was snoozing in the audience. Why had he assumed Yuuri wanted this?

The young slave applied a bit of powder to him and placed a glittering mask over his cheeks. It was bright, dizzy, and almost threw off his balance with its baubles.

A choked off cry caught his attention. The satyr held Ganymede by the hips, impaling him even further onto him. Then, though he weighed no more than a doll, pulled him off till his tip barely peeked out from inside, and _forced_ him back down all the way.

Ganymede’s icy blue eyes flew open, lips parted in a shocked “o,” and something stirred in Yuuri that he couldn’t quite place.

“That’s my cue,” he ground out, waving off the slave beside him.

“Wait,” The slave spluttered, “The beast isn’t done-”

Yuuri ignored him and snatched up the wooden sword, almost stumbling over his own feet as he wandered onto the stage.

The satyr looked up at him as he appeared in the limelight. A few _boos_ echoed from the audience, but the cheers were louder, and Yuuri slid into his traditional fighting stance with ease even in his inebriated state. He’d been practicing, something his caretaker Celestino demanded.

Fury blazed in the satyr’s eyes behind his mask. Yuuri realized, suddenly, that he almost certainly was supposed to wait until the satyr came, and his confidence wavered slightly - but what kind of Melchior would he be if he slipped, quietly, back into the wings?

He jabbed forward with the wooden sword and the satyr slid out of Ganymede, letting him drop to the floor with a pained _oof_. He lunged at Yuuri, but Yuuri deftly avoided it and brought the wooden sword down on the satyr’s back.

It didn’t do much, considering the satyr’s size, but it did draw a giggle from Ganymede, prostrate on the stage floor, panting.

The satyr lunged at him again and Yuuri brought his leg up to strike his still-hard cock, swordsmanship be damned. He grinned gleefully at the howl the satyr let out, relishing at his muscular thighs and calves from years of dancing. _See how you like it,_ he thought.

There was something almost _mutinous_ in the satyr’s eyes, but he limped offstage with a final roar as Yuuri twirled to bring the sword down on his shoulder once more.

Ganymede fixed him with a carefully placed smile, a veneer of gratefulness that Yuuri enjoyed despite himself. Yuuri sunk to his knees beside the slave dancer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

It had all been an act, he knew, but he imagined it had still hurt - and Ganymede pressed his cheek against Yuuri’s calloused hand with a relieved smile that seemed genuine.

For the first time, Yuuri _wanted_ to be Melchior. He wanted to play a part in this drama. How had he heard the story told?

 _And then Melchior cradled Ganymede’s ravished body in his arms and kissed him, pouring his god-like power back into those bruised limbs_.

“You did so well,” Yuuri murmured against Ganymede’s swollen mouth. He ran a trembling thumb over Ganymede’s cheek, then brought their lips together for a gentle kiss.

Ganymede kissed him back, the slightest, tentative hint of tongue pressing against his mouth, a low moan pouring into him. It sounded like-

Yuuri’s eyes flew open to meet the slave’s icy blue stare.

No, no. Something was coming back to him, creeping out from the shadows of his mind.

Was the hair before him really silver? Were his eyes really the same ice blue?

Yuuri reached out with trembling hands and Ganymede closed his eyes like he thought Yuuri was going to kiss him again.

Instead, Yuuri grasped Ganymede’s mask and wrenched it from him, tossing it to the side.

Ganymede’s eyes flew open in shock, his lips parted and pink. A flash of fear passed through that familiar stare.

 _No,_ Yuuri thought, _no - it can’t be, Victor?_

Ganymede reached out a hand to him and Yuuri flinched away like he’d been burned.

_No, no-_

_It can’t be you, because…_

_Because you’re dead._

Everyone was staring. Yuuri’s hands were tingling and cold - a panic attack was settling in. He pushed Ganymede away harder than he’d mean to and bolted off the stage.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the satyr from earlier, rutting his still hard cock against the blonde slave’s trembling thighs. His head was turned away in disgust, and when he saw Yuuri running, he fixed him with an icy stare of pure fury.

  
Yuuri ran, and ran, and ran, until he stumbled, vomited, and passed out in alleyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me that stupid story again,” Yuri was whining, fumbling to twist his blonde hair into a braided crown. “You know, the one we’re performing tonight.”
> 
> “Of course,” Victor said, sweeping a boar bristle brush through his own long silver tresses. “This one’s one of my favorites.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a bit of Victor/Yuri P., but not in like... A sexual context. Yuri just helps him "prepare" for his performance. It's super not meant to be sexy, haha. 
> 
> We'll have a few more chapters after this in Victor's POV - he has a bit more to do in between now and meeting Yuuri again. I've had some fun trying to figure out how to write Victor in this situation, especially since he's so confident in canon, and his counterpart in the original The Golden Bird is very... Not. Let me know how you're liking his characterization as the story progresses!
> 
> The content warnings hold throughout, but I'll also make sure to mention if I think anything particularly upsetting happens in a chapter.

“Tell me that stupid story again,” Yuri was whining, fumbling to twist his blonde hair into a braided crown. “You know, the one we’re performing tonight.” 

“Of course,” Victor said, sweeping a boar bristle brush through his own long silver tresses. “This one’s one of my favorites.” 

Yuri’s hands were trembling, Victor noticed. Even after a year at the Ice Castle, he still saw the same spark of fear in his eyes before every single performance. The fear made his makeup and dancing sloppy, which made him inevitable act rashly around a client, which without fail got him a whipping  _ at least _ , which made him afraid-

It was a vicious cycle. Victor didn’t understand it, but then, he had been born a ~~slave~~ \- unlike Yuri, who had been sold off after fourteen years of freedom by a lousy lone mother with not enough money and too many debts. 

Victor tried to empathize and to assuage some of the worst punishments Yuri might get, the ones that weren’t just beatings but long, painful nights with the Count and his beast, by taking them on himself. He was used to it, after all - but he couldn’t keep doing that forever. Physically  _ couldn’t _ . 

“Guess who personally requested to play the satyr tonight,” came a sharp voice from behind the pair, equal parts wry and frustrated. Mila, the muscle of the Ice Castle, with her short red hair and piercing blue stare.

A jolt of fear bubbled up in Victor, unbidden, and he fought to stamp it down.  _ Not him _ , he thought desperately,  _ not again _ .

“And Yakov’s just going to let him?” came Yuri’s voice, high pitched with fear. “That spineless  _ bastard _ .”

“Watch yourself,” Mila snapped at him, “Anyone important hears you talking like that and you’ll be working double shifts.”

Yuri went pale and his mouth snapped shut. 

Mila’s face softened and she raised her palms apologetically. “Sorry, Victor - Yakov’s hands are tied, especially when the Count’s offered him so much money to have his slave be a part of the show.” She rolled her eyes. “Typical male - can’t get it up to fuck someone himself, so he buys the most  _ beastly _ stallion to be his surrogate.”

Victor smiled, softly. Mila could get away with such talk, but his tongue was tied. He turned to Yuri and slicked back a flyaway into his braid reflexively, murmuring, “Fetch me the oil, and a dildo. The biggest one you can find.” 

Yuri dashed out and Mila put her hand on Victor shoulder. “Don’t tell him I said this,” she murmured, “But I’m worried about him. He’s been here a year now, and we’re still getting the same complaints about him. Too smart, not compliant enough - if this keeps up, you know Yakov will have no choice but to sell him off. Then we’ll have  _ no _ control in how he’s treated.”

“He’s improving,” Victor lied, plastering a fake confidence over his face. “Have a little mercy, Mila - it must be hard for him to be here and not home, with his family.” 

“Hey, I like him. It’s not  _ my _ mercy he needs,” Mila warned. Her tone changed, then, and suddenly her voice was weary. “You and I both know that giving up is the only way to get through this.” 

Victor grimaced. It sounded so hopeless when she put it like that. He thought of some of the other slaves who had at one point worked at Ice Castle - like Georgi, who was so taken with a female client that, when she stopped visiting, fell into an abyss of despair. They’d sold him off to a half-deaf old man who couldn’t hear him weeping  _ Anya, Anya _ in the early hours of the morning. 

She wasn’t wrong, though - after all, hadn’t he  _ just _ given up on seeing his own beloved again when a Count passing by the dirt-poor whorehouse by the docks saw his malnourished, naked body spasming through a desperate dance for food and decided he was worthy of something better? 

_ I’ll come back for you, I swear it! _

Victor shook his head. That was so long ago, before he started work at the Ice Castle, and yet… 

How many times had he heard those words echoing in his mind as some rough dockworker or sailor forced themselves inside him? Whole nights servicing more men than his young body could handle, until he was bruised and bleeding, and all the while that soft, gentle voice from his memory mocked him. 

Oh,  _ no _ \- he was letting himself think about it again. Even nearly a decade later, the memories of the other whorehouses he worked in made every ounce of energy seep from his body. They latched onto him like leeches, and even the threat of more work or a vicious beating couldn’t pull him back. 

Luckily, in that moment, Yuri burst in, the massive dildo in his hand crashing against the doorpost loud enough to startle Victor out of his reverie. 

Mila slipped quietly out the door, locking eyes with Victor pointedly one last time. 

“Ugh,” Yuri sniffed, “How do you expect to fit this thing inside you?”

“With help,” Victor said pointedly.

Yuri’s eyes bugged out almost comically wide. “Gross!” he spit out, taking a step back. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s your  _ job _ as my mentee,” Victor reminded him, “C’mon, I’ll tell you the story while you work.”

He slipped off his robe and kneeled on the chair, avoiding Yuri’s eyes and his own haggard reflection in the mirror. Finally, after a few tense moments where Victor wondered if he would have to prepare himself, or start threatening, he heard Yuri grumble an acquiescence. 

Behind him came the  _ pop _ of a vial opening, the slick squelch of Yuri spreading oil over his hand. He closed his eyes and sank into the sensation of his cheeks being spread and Yuri slipping a finger in, far too easily - two, then three sliding inside with no effort or strain. 

“Ganymede was the prince of an ancient kingdom, the beautiful son of a jealous, wicked king. He only grew lovelier with age, blossoming with the first hairs of adulthood between his legs. Soon, the king began to receive offers of courtship, from the kingdom by the sea, who could offer them access to all the wealth of the ocean - from the kingdom of fire, who harvested the sharpest, blackest volcanic rock to make their spears and swords.”

Yuri slipped his thin hand entirely inside Victor, sinking it in up to the wrist, and began to spread his delicate fingers apart to stretch him. 

“As even more courted his son, the king grew confused and anguished at needing to pick the most strategic choice. If he chose one, the other kingdoms would hate him - perhaps enough even to wage war. And besides, a dark, cruel part of the king saw his beautiful son and desired to keep him for himself. Engulfed in lustful rage, the king attempted to do the unthinkable - so Ganymede ran.” 

Victor bit back a groan as Yuri’s thin arm slipped in even further, halfway up the forearm. Any verbal or physical acknowledgement that Yuri was inside him would cause his young ward to flee - and it would end awfully for both of them. Victor on stage, Yuri at the end of the lash afterward. 

“He ran to the edge of the forest, weeping, and ducked into the thick branches without thought of danger. The king’s hounds were hot on his heels, and he didn’t dare turn back. He came across many men in the woods, who were kind to him at first, but turned cruel and capricious when he wouldn’t give them his body, his virginity.” 

Yuri slipped out of him and Victor steeled himself. 

“He hid, deeper and deeper in the woods, where dwelled creatures far more dangerous to pretty boys than men - dryads, centaurs, satyrs. Eventually, feet aching, legs burning, he came across an altar to the war-god Melchior. It was carved of pure moonstone and starlight, and Ganymede was so taken with it’s beauty that he began to dance before it, as tribute. He didn’t see the satyr, hiding in the -  _ AH _ !” 

Victor cried out at a sharp, agonizing pain at his entrance, hot and burning. “Take it out,” he gasped, “Oh god, Yuri, take it out-”

“Sorry!” Yuri spluttered out, dildo slipping out of his oil-slick hands and clattering to the floor, “Gods, sorry Victor, I just - they all do this, I thought-”

Victor gasped for breath, gripping the vanity until his knuckles turned white. Good  _ god _ had that not been enough preparation. He turned around to see his ward trembling, arms up like he expected to be hit. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Yuri begged, voice cracking at the edges. 

His right arm was completely slick with oil up to the elbow, and Victor sighed, leaning back as his heartbeat steadied. He’d had a sudden flash of something too big with not enough preparation, from his younger days, of the man holding it laughing as he begged to have it taken out. Rationally, in the cold, numb part of Victor’s mind, he knew Yuri hadn’t done that on purpose. 

And he didn’t need a reminder that such a man existed.

“I know, I know. Your arms are so thin,” Victor murmured, soothingly, running a calming hand through Yuri’s golden hair, as though  _ he _ was the one in physical pain. “Just… See if you can fit both your hands in me before we try again.”

He made a mental note to ask Yakov for higher rations and more exercise - Yuri clearly needed both.

Yuri nodded, shakily, and Victor went back to kneeling before his vanity set. There was a slight burn as Victor accommodated two wriggling, oil-slick hands, then two pressed together forearms, but it wasn’t unbearable. 

“The satyr was as taken with the prince as hundreds of men before him. But unlike the men, he was swift and savage and caught his prize. He raped Ganymede there, on Melchior’s altar, while Ganymede wept for his lost virginity. When Melchior returned from his hunt, he saw the beast and the prince and flew into a rage at the two of them - but he was not so  _ base _ as to smite before considering the situation.”

The solid tip of the dildo was cold against his entrance again, and Victor grit his teeth, but this time it slid in with only a slight pressure. He puffed out a breath in relief. 

“He knew the beast was taking the prince against his will, and with a mighty crack of lightning he scared the creature off. Ganymede was afraid, but then Melchior cradled Ganymede’s ravished body in his arms and kissed him, pouring his god-like power back into those bruised limbs. He took Ganymede himself, then - gently, unlike the beast, and stole him away to his kingdom in the heavens, where he would be safe from the men and beasts below.” 

Finally, Victor was stretched and prepared enough to take in his own beast’s cock. He took a deep breath and relaxed as Yuri washed his arms and fluttered about to do Victor’s hair and makeup. 

“I hate that story,” Yuri snapped, sliding a mascara stick along Victor’s lashes, “It’s so sad. Ganymede didn’t deserve that.”

There was a strange lump in Victor’s throat. “I knew someone else who said that, once,” he whispered. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene from chapter one, but from Victor's POV. Be sure to keep telling me what you liked/didn't like about the fic!! Your comments/kudos mean the world to me. :D 
> 
> Short chapter, sorry, but the next one will be longer! That one will probably be online on Wednesday.

There were many reasons Yakov couldn’t refuse the Count’s demands. The first, of course, was money - money was king and god all at once at the Ice Castle. The patronage the Count provided, in exchange for any slave he wanted, whenever he wanted, was enough to cover food and bedding and makeup for half the slaves in the brothel. 

The second was prestige - the Count was, well, a  _ count _ . He wasn’t some petty noble with too much money to blow. If any slaves wanted to move up from a whorehouse dancer to a private royal pet, they needed to go through him - that is, god willing, they didn’t go  _ with _ him. 

The third reason was a recurring fixture in Victor’s nightmares. The Count loved to tinker - with sex toys and torture devices that Victor often found himself on the receiving end of, and with stage mechanics, which were partly what set the Ice Castle apart from other establishments.

Victor set a shaky foot inside the box and grit his teeth as a stagehand lifted it high above the dancers below. If it broke and he went tumbling all the way to the stage, his life would be over. 

In his fear, he barely registered the satyr ravishing the youngest slaves in the establishment on the stage underneath him - that is until a sharp cry from a painfully familiar voice caught his attention. Victor swore he saw the satyr fix him with one glittering eye as he grabbed young Yuri with enough force to bruise, and he glowered as he clung to the contraption. 

_“Fuck that beast,”_ _Yuri was always complaining, “Why’s he so interested in me?”_

_ “He’s trying to get to me,” Victor sighed, bitterly.  _

_ “Well then fuck you too, you asshole-” _

There was his cue. The lift descended to the ground below, and Victor all but leapt off it. He let the music sweep over him, and he inhaled into the sweet music of a flute. This was easy, calming - he loved dancing, dancing had saved his life on more than one occasion. His body was lithe and graceful, his limbs powerful. 

When he danced, his mind went away from all  _ this _ \- but then, nothing good lasted forever. 

The music change and Victor prepared himself for what was to come, grateful for how loose and stretched he already was. 

He fake-fled half-heartedly, barely registering when he was on his back, the beast’s heavy cock hovering by his lips. The smell was awful, but there was nothing he could do but lay there and let the beast fuck his mouth. 

Victor thought of snakes, who could unhinge their jaws to devour prey larger than their bodies, and wished for that bone structure now as his jaw strained to take the cock in deeper. He didn’t have a gag reflex, hadn’t had one since he was younger than Yuri, but it was still a hot, thick intrusion that his body rebelled against.

His throat stretched like his ass earlier. A heavy weight settled there, then slid up and down so deep that Victor could  _ feel _ rather than taste the thick precum in his throat. 

The beast pulled out, then, leaving him gagging as he draped him over the altar, trying to compose himself as he was spread open for the enjoyment of the audience. Then, without preamble, the beast shoved himself in. 

It  _ burned _ , even with the prep from earlier. He stretched, and stretched, and knew that even after a hundred men a day he could never be loose enough to take all of this in at once. 

The beast pressed in deeper, until his balls were flush against Victor’s ass, then began to thrust in earnest. Victor cried out sharply at the grinding thrusts, the deep, full ache inside him. It wasn’t awful, though, and Victor’s thoughts drifted away to a hot summer day and sweet ripe plums dripping down his arms. When was the last time he’d eaten a plum? 

“Hey,  _ Ice Prince _ , where’s your empty head at?”

_ Shit _ , the beast had noticed. He should’ve known better than to drift off like that, but he’d done this  _ so many times _ -

The beast pulled out of him and lifted his leg up until it stretched, painfully, over his head. Normally, Victor would relish the slow burn of this movement, but here it was humiliating - even moreso when the beast slipped a fat finger inside of him and pulled his cheeks apart to show the audience how ravished, how red his hole was. 

“Your little page is almost as good a dancer as you are,” the beast snarled into his ear. “I hope one day I get to fuck  _ him _ like this instead of you. And I won’t let them stretch him out like they do you, you loose, sloppy slut.” 

White hot fury sparked at Victor’s limbs and he brought his elbow back into the beast, unthinking. He wasn’t mad at being called a slut - he’d been called far worse with far more venom, but Yuri was so young and still cried for his grandfather back home. It wasn’t fair, he didn’t deserve to be here-

The beast cackled and the hot fury dissipated into icy terror. Suddenly, the burn was  _ worse _ , and the cock was back at his entrance, and he was gripping the table to keep steady as he was stretched to his limits, inside and out.

Oh god, he was going to be torn in two - the beast was going to rip his leg clean off. His ass clenched at the awful position and was rewarded with a sharp, stabbing pain against his walls as his whole body constricted. There was a constant pounding at his tender walls, too big to touch the spot inside him, even if that was allowed-

The beast was laughing, and tears beaded at the corners of his eyes, and suddenly he was on his back and staring into the awful, unforgiving eyes above him. Precome dripped out of his too-lose hole and down his thigh, and claws scratched and pinched his pink nipples until they ached like the rest of him.

The beast gripped his hips and pulled him out, until all that was left was a dull, empty ache and the round tip still stretching his hole - then  _ slammed _ himself back in.

It was all Victor could do to stop himself from screaming. He wasn’t bleeding, it took far more than  _ this _ to make him bleed, but his eyes flew open as the beast fucked him harder, pushing him to his limits. 

Nights like this, when it felt like the fucking would never end, his mind crept back to his last dancehall by the docks, twirling through a routine only to have some rough sailor grab him halfway through and ravish him right there, and Victor would pray that his tights were the only thing they tore.

Too soon, and somehow still not soon enough, it was over. Victor registered briefly that there was no hot wetness at his entrance or on his legs, that the beast was limping away, obviously unsatisfied.

_ Good _ , he thought,  _ let someone else get you off tonight _ . 

Then Melchior was before him, gentle and glowing and reeking of liquor. Somedays, Melchior was kind - others, he was selfish, sliding into Victor’s abused body and only getting himself off. This Melchior smiled at him, and placed his hand on his shoulder, and told him that he’d done well. 

Victor let himself fall into the fantasy for a moment, and he met the warm amber gaze of Melchior, behind the mask, blanketed by the idea that he’d be taken away to a soft bed and no more men. His lips were so soft, even if his breath was sour.

Then Melchoir was gaping at him, ripping away his mask, and raising his fist to beat him black and blue-

Victor’s fantasy disappeared and he crashed back into the real world, spasming to at least protect his face - but the blow never came.

Then Melchior was running off into the night. 

It all happened so fast, Victor’s mind struggled to keep up with the pace of it. Why? What happened? What had he  _ done _ ?

Then his thoughts caught up with him and pure terror pooled in the pit of his stomach. 

Oh, oh  _ no _ -

Victor stumbled offstage after a few awful moments of complete audience silence. The beast was waiting for him, wiping his sticky hands on his mask, and Victor caught Yuri out of the corner of his eye, wiping himself down with a towel. 

He was too afraid to be angry. He sunk to his knees and buried his head in the beast’s leg, pleading inwardly for a mercy he knew he wasn’t going to get.

  
“If I’d known our little lord was going to flee, I’d have waited for you,” the beast purred at him, claws out. He grabbed a fistful of Victor’s braided hair, and Victor wondered if he should start grovelling  _ now _ or  _ later _ . “C’mon, I think our masters are going to need to talk.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to meet the Count, who is pretty 1D evil. Also, I said I'd give warnings for anything too upsetting, so be aware this chapter has some pretty explicit non-consensual sex near the end. 
> 
> Also, I love the idea of Yuuri and Phichit being friends with benefits (but nothing more), so there's some of that as well.
> 
> Only one or two more chapters before Yuuri and Victor meet again! I should update on Sunday.

Yuuri would deny this until the day they put him in the ground, but he’d actually known at an earlier point in the evening that Phichit intended to take the two of them to a brothel, though alcohol did have a funny way of messing with his memory. Phichit had curled around him, a light touch of liquor on his breath, and murmured in his ear that they needed to do something  _ fun _ . 

Fun, as in, buy a prostitute, see a burlesque show, all of the above. When he’d had only four glasses of champagne, Yuuri had curled up between Phichit’s legs and taken his cock in his mouth and sucked it, sloppily, while Phichit murmured all the things the dancer’s there were taught to do. 

“They’ll wrap their legs around your neck so you can taste the muscles in their thighs,” Phichit cooed, “They’ll ride you until you see stars.” 

“How do you know that?” Yuuri had mumbled around a mouthful of cock, and it apparently wasn’t particularly coherent, because Phichit just laughed. 

“What do you know about the Ice Prince?” Phichit asked, devilishly. He was acting strange, slightly off - or maybe that was just the alcohol talking. This was certainly the most daring festival adventure he’d taken Yuuri on - also the most out of character. 

Yuuri hummed and relished in the high-pitched cry that Phichit let out at the sensation.

“H-he’s called that because… Because…” Phichit bit his lip and shuddered, as Yuuri licked a long stripe up his length, “He’s so cool, so calm, so aloof - until you take him, and suddenly he’ll  _ melt _ around you. Yuuri,  _ Yuuri _ , I’m going to come-” 

Yuuri felt his own cock stir, slightly, as he swallowed down Phichit’s come with a sloppy smile. 

Phichit kissed his cheek and wiped a trail of cloudy white saliva from the corner of his mouth. Yuuri whined and rubbed his crotch against Phichit’s thigh, but Phichit pulled back with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Yuuri knocked back a few more glasses of champagne to satisfy the ache Phichit left when he pulled away.

It wasn’t romantic, what they did, but Yuuri would be eternally thankful he’d found a friend who had no ulterior motives to sleeping with him, no dark intentions besides getting each other off. Even as they walked, arm in arm, along city streets littered with drunken revellers, Yuuri saw and felt the stares of men off to the sidelines - waiting to pick up an unsuspecting single partier. 

A nervous prickle crept up his spine, and he pressed closer to Phichit, who rubbed a soothing line up his arm with his thumb. Yuuri pulled out a flask of liquor from his pocket and downed it, and a warm flush blossomed across his chest.

“Don’t worry,” Phichit whispered with a wink, “I’m going to take good care of you this evening, I promise.”

_ You’re a liar _ , Yuuri thought, bitterly, a few hours later, passed out in a pile of garbage. He was too drunk to be afraid, but not drunk enough to be blissful. With a sigh, Yuuri slipped off to sleep.  

* * *

 

“We have at least ten customers asking for their money back,” Yakov was screaming, red in the face and dizzy with wine. “Do you have any idea how expensive tickets were?”

Mila stood, unblinking, behind him. Victor knew it was too much to ask her for help, but he wished she’d say  _ something _ .

Victor hung his head, miserably. “I’m sorry, Yakov, I couldn’t - the lord acted erratically, it wasn’t me-”

“Mr. Feltsmann,” Mila murmured, voice carefully emotionless, “Perhaps he’d had too much to drink, you know how lords are this time of the year-”

“You could have grabbed him! Done  _ something _ other than sat there on your ass! Are you so used to taking it that you’ve lost all your initiative? I oughta - I oughta throw you back where I found you!” 

An empty threat, and one Yakov made several times a year, but it never failed to fill him with awful, agonizing fear. It was funny, there were some things he could bury under a layer of numb resignation.

“ _ Please _ ,” Victor pleaded, “Please, not back there, I’ll make it up to you - take double shifts, triple shifts, I’ll…” He stared at Yakov’s crotch, swallowing softly, and crawled forward to press his nose to the curve of Yakov’s thigh. “I can make it up to you now, if you like.” 

“Stop that,” Yakov snapped, pulling back. Victor hung his head in relief. Most of his old masters would have taken the opportunity to fuck his mouth right there, at least Yakov treated him as much like a professional as anyone had, “I never thought I’d need to worry about  _ you _ losing us money. I’ll have to see-”

At that moment, the door slammed open, and Victor’s blood ran cold. It was the Count, his beastly slave in tow, no less monstrous without the satyr mask. With Yakov, he could get away with a minor punishment - less food, more work, something  _ reasonable _ . 

The Count was a wild card, though, and he never dealt a hand in Victor’s favor.

“My slave reports something very disappointing,” he purred in a way that so clearly was meant to mime a casual display of power, face still hidden behind his festival mask, “And after I’d specifically requested  _ he  _ play the part of the satyr, too - Yakov, I know you’re not an incompetent man, but this is truly shameful.”

The color drained from Yakov’s face. Victor imagined someone had pulled a plug in some vein in his neck.  

“I beg the Count’s forgiveness,” Yakov mumbled, tipping into a bow, licking his thin lips in an unmistakeable fear. 

The Count smiled. “And how will we amend this error?”

Victor shook even as the same cold numbness crept up his spine. The Count was childish, petty, trying too hard to display his limited power. Victor knew he was on the lower end of court nobles, in terms of prestige, but that didn’t matter when he was a slave with absolutely no leverage.

Yakov didn’t raise from the bow. “We can… We can announce a special engagement, another two nights of performance in honor of the festival, your slave can play the satyr both times-”

“Do you think I am blessed with your free time?” The Count sighed, shaking his head. He was leading Yakov to something, and it took all of Victor’s strength not to burst into tears and beg right there.  _ Please, sir, it was an accident…  _

_ Don’t ask it,  _ Victor pleaded silently, shoulders shaking as he bowed, prostrate, before the powerful men in front of him.  _ Yakov, please, don’t ask it _ -

“What does the Count suggest?” Yakov asked, voice strained as he attempted to maintain his bow. 

_ Fuck _ , Victor swore internally.

“Tell me your punishment,” The Count offered, and Victor narrowed his eyes. That was too easy.

Yakov finally rose, back cracking with the effort. His eyes were wide with shock, and he swallowed. “I think… Reduced rations, for the remainder of the festival.”

“Good. And?”

Yakov’s gaze flitted to Victor on his knees before him. “And… And, he’ll need to work more, to make up for the money he’s lost.” 

“Do you think you can get ten lords of tonight’s caliber that easily? Wouldn’t it be easier to offer him for a reduced price tonight to as many men as possible?”

Victor shook. It was too much like the docks, like his childhood in the outlying territories-

Yakov swallowed. “I… I suppose.”

Victor wanted to scream.

“And, afterwards, give him to my slave.”

Pure terror pierced him. Behind him, Mila choked on a quickly stifled gasp. How was he supposed to survive that, so many men, then being ravaged by that monster?

What could he do, though, but endure? He couldn’t refuse. Slaves couldn’t refuse. 

Yakov could refuse for him, but Victor knew he wouldn’t. 

_ Spineless  _ bastard, Victor sobbed inwardly, though his face was a blank mask.

He barely registered that the conversation, the coercion, was over. He barely registered Mila’s hand on his arm, her body lifting his when his legs failed him. She didn’t meet his gaze. 

Mila was a fiery, whip-sharp woman who fed stray cats with Yuri with the scraps from their rations. 

_ You and I both know that giving up is the only way to get through this. _

Victor wondered what had made her like this, and he tried not to hate her for it. 

She lead him to their lobby, where drunken commoners and nobles splayed out over plush couches, groping at the naked slaves who fluttered around with water and even more alcohol.  

“Special, festival offer,” She called out, directing a slave to make a note by the refreshments, “The Ice Prince, for a fraction of his normal cost. An offer no man can refuse.”

Then, mechanically, she smacked his ass and directed him to a public room just off the lobby. This was where the worst-sellers worked, those that could only maintain profits by being sold off to common men and merchants. It was humiliating, an awful insult to someone of his stature in the brothel - 

Victor gulped, and as he arranged himself on the lumpy straw mattress, out of the corner of his eye he saw a noble with an ugly birthmark on his nose catch Mila’s arm. 

“Hey, lady, I’m looking for a particular slave. He’s young, blonde, got a braid in his hair - I’d like to buy him for a while.”

Victor couldn’t think about that now. The first client stepped up, a meaty, middle-aged man who didn’t even speak as he flipped Victor onto his hands and knees and shoved himself inside. He was still sore from the play earlier, and he bit his lip at the discomfort. He’d had worse, though - there was always something worse. 

Hot come splattered his thighs and he quickly rearranged himself for the next client, weary smile on his pink lips. 

The second client had thin fingers and a thin, pencil-long cock. He wanted Victor on his back, wanted his hands wrapped around his throat. There was no strain to take his length in, but it went deep and prodded uncomfortably against the deep bruises inside him. 

A few more, the ache had grown to a burn. More after that, Victor knew he was nowhere near done, but the pain was bordering on unbearable. He stopped sitting up after a client, just lay there in whatever position he was left in, an unbearable stickiness dripping down his thighs. 

He started to disappear into his own head. It was what he  _ did _ when things were bad like this, what he’d done for the seven solid years he’d worked in that awful dockhouse, from ages fifteen to twenty two.

His mind blanked. He thought of dancing, of the precision in his movements - he counted the threads in the gaudy, obscene tapestry before his eyes. His body disappeared and he couldn’t feel the thrusting, hear the grunting, smell the sweat and come covering him.

_ You’ll come take me away, right? _

Someone was examining him with a gloved hand, making sick squelching sounds. Outside, through a crack in the wall, Victor saw the moon high above him. It had been rising when he’d started - what time was it now?

“Mouths only,” he heard Mila call. “He can’t take any more in his ass.”

It sounded like she was talking to someone. Victor dared to peer up into the lobby, visible from the public room he lay in. The count was there, his beast shifting impatiently from side to side, desire clear between his legs. It was a valiant effort from Mila, but Victor knew it was in vain.

How long? Victor wondered. How long had he been there?

Then someone’s cock was at his lips and he was taking it deep into his throat, mind as white and blank as freshly-printed paper. 

A slight sharp pain - too much use had split his lip, already worried from being bitten earlier. There was a trickle of blood down his chin, or was that saliva, or was it come? 

Victor could barely move. He lay there on the mat, letting the clients fuck his face and throat, opening his lips pliantly every time and disappearing into the furthest corners of his mind. 

Then, suddenly, he registered from the cold and quiet that it was over, and Victor’s mind floated back into his body. 

Oh, god, it hurt, it  _ hurt _ -

His throat, his ass, his legs and arms and chest and head were all an aching cacophony of pain. Victor let out a low sob and rolled over onto his stomach, too sore to even stand, and he made the mistake of catching the reflection of his appearance in a mirror on the wall.

His hair was sticky and dishevelled, pulled out of the careful braids, his lips split and eyes sunken in, his neck and chest covered in red and purple bruises from hands and mouths and fists. There was a bright red bite mark circling around one nipple, and Victor couldn’t see his lower body, but he was sure from the searing agony it looked even worse. 

“You look terrible,” someone spat at him. For a moment, Victor thought it might’ve been Mila - but then a rough hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him out of the public room, tossed him over an ottoman in the brightly-lit foyer. 

He recognized the Count’s boots before his eyes, and winced when one of them slid up to caress his cheek, leaving a smear of mud. His stomach pressed painfully into the ottoman, his knees barely touching the floor.

“What am I going to do to you?” The Count asked, voice barely above a murmur.

“You’re…” Victor’s voice was barely a whisper. He cleared his aching throat and tried again. “You’re going to fuck me.”

“And do you want it?”

_ No _ , Victor thought.  _ God, I’d rather die, I’m going to die- _

“I want it,” Victor said, trembling, voice and body a sloppy mess. There was no way the Count believed him, but then, to him it never actually mattered if Victor wanted it. 

Then the beast grabbed his arms, pulling his upper body back, and forced himself inside. 

Victor bit his lip so hard he swore it split straight in two. He tried to swallow the scream, or morph it into something more sensual, but it  _ hurt,  _ it hurt so so so much-

The beast’s hands were on his hips, and he was pulling Victor back, pushing him forward. 

Victor realized faintly that he was hyperventilating. The beast flipped him over so his back was pressed against the ottoman, his legs split wide in the air to get a better angle. The beast fucked him deeper and harder and longer, on his back, on his side, on the floor-

He hated the Count, he hated everyone who had forced him into this system and made him suck and fuck no matter how much he hurt, how little he wanted to, he hated himself for being born a barbarian  _ slave _ -

Tears bubbled up in Victor’s eyes and spilled down his cheeks as he straddled the beast, mustering enough energy to sink himself down but not enough to ride him. The beast looked at his master helplessly, who rolled his eyes and ordered him to buck his hips up. Victor leaned over, resting his head on that thick barrel chest as the beast thrust into him in short, jerking bursts.

Just as black spots appeared at the edges of his vision, hot, thick come splattered inside him. It stung his scraped-up insides, and the beast tossed him off like a used rag. He lay there on the filthy foyer floor, curled up in a ball, sobbing almost mechanically, not really feeling the searing ache in his gut.  

The beast stared up at his master, waiting for a sign that he was finished. Victor saw the tremble in his thigh, the sheen of exhausted sweat on his chest, but couldn't bring himself to pity the man. 

There were still a few nobles there, staring at him like they wanted their own turn.

“Bleeding?” The Count commented disdainfully, “What are you, a virgin?”

Then, he laughed, and laughed, and  _ howled _ with the sheer force of his joke.

_ Fuck you,  _ Victor snarled inwardly,  _ Fuck you, fuck you,  _ fuck you-

“I’ll see you soon, darling,” the Count murmured, pressing a deceptively gentle kiss to his cheek.

Victor closed his eyes and despair filled the empty spots inside of him. He knew two things vividly - the first, that the Count would be back, well before his body had a chance to recover from this.

The second, that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

* * *

 

Mila poured cold water over him and Victor gasped out of the dark hallway of his memories he’d been wandering. He was at home, practicing the traditional harvest festival dance, he was curled up by the fire, his mother braiding flowers into his long flowing hair, he was dancing, twirling with abandon as a few kingdom guards watched with dark interest at the edge of the crowd-

He needed to condition his hair, deep clean his silver locks, but he could barely move. He didn’t even remember the trip from the foyer to the slave bathrooms.

“Lay down,” Mila murmured, as though he needed to be told to do so, “I’ll wash you.”

“What about Yuri?” Victor croaked, throat crackling with the effort of speaking.

“He’s occupied,” Mila said, voice a bladed edge.

Mila scrubbed his bruised body until he was raw and weeping from the pain, but then she massaged lotions and oils into him with gentle, soft hands. She scratched a massage into his scalp with the conditioner, and when she was done, Victor felt new and soft as a baby. 

She even cleaned him out inside, his wet, cold body clinging to her, crying into her stomach at the agony of it. But then, as he clung to consciousness by barely a thread, she passed him a bitter drink and the pain faded to a dull throb. 

“Pure liquid opium,” She murmured, and his eyes widened in shock, nearly popping out of his skull. “Stole it off a passed out noble in the lobby.”

Victor was wrapped in a towel and tossed into bed, cold hair clinging to his cheeks. For a moment, under the hot lights of the stage, he’d imagined himself wrapped up in warm, loving arms. How quickly that had been ripped away, he thought bitterly. 

His thoughts were fuzzy, a little bit numb, but even the drug didn’t take away everything. Victor’s arm tingled under him from the awkward, suffocating position, but he was too tired to move it. Instead, he simply slipped off into sleep. 

Sometime, later in the night, his door slammed open, and Victor didn’t even have the energy to be afraid. 

Silhouetted in his doorway was a lithe, naked body, shaking uncontrollably. Victor’s eyes adjusted and he raked them over his young ward, the bruises up and down his chest, the bright red marks around his wrists, the ugly smear of blood on his inner thighs.

Yuri collapsed to his knees, still stinking of sex, and buried his head in Victor’s chest, a single sob slipping out. It was too much, too much in one night. Naked and bruised and barely clinging to consciousness on the bed, there was nothing of comfort Victor could say.

Wordlessly, agonizingly, Victor pulled back his blanket to let Yuri in with him, and he grunted as Yuri’s clinging struck a bruise on his back. In the back of his memory.

“Don’t interrupt my sleep with one of your nightmares again,” Yuri snapped at him, a last, desperate attempt to regain some control of an uncontrollable whirlwind of terror.

Victor was numb, and hollow, and hurting. He smiled wryly and said, “Come now, Yuri, I know you don’t sleep.” 

  
Yuri sobbed and buried himself even deeper in the crook of Victor’s neck. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH one day late, I'm sorry!! I don't even have a real excuse, I just got distracted yesterday and totally forgot to post this.
> 
> One more chapter and then the ~meeting~! Also, I promise the "Phichit is screwing everyone" plotline goes somewhere - it's not just filler. 
> 
> Next chapter on Wednesday (for real this time)!

_ “Say ‘hi,’ Yuuri.” _

_ Yuuri didn’t speak. His voice was stuck in his throat, eyes downcast, tracing the patterns of the plush carpet.  _

_ “You’re Victor, right? You live here? Aw, aren’t you sweet,” Minako’s voice was as musical as ever, and she ran a soothing caress down Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m glad Yuuri will have someone his own age to play with.” _

_ “Oh, no, master says I’m only allowed to play with him.”  _

_ It would be years before Yuuri would understand the awful, aching silence that followed. His head was a fog, his throat raw from throwing up, his stomach full from lunch and peeking out over his too-small shirt. _

_ “C’mon Yuuri, don’t you want to meet Victor?” _

_ Suddenly, Yuuri registered warmth wrapped around him like a blanket and a big, soft hand squeezing the bulge of his stomach.  _

_ “Yuuri, you’re so cute,” Victor cooed. “I like him! He’s mine now.”  _

_ Minako laughed, because that was such a silly, childish thing to say, because she willed herself not to understand it for Yuuri’s sake. Victor was warm, though, and soft, and sweet - Yuuri sunk into him and let Victor lead him around the house. _

* * *

 

Yuuri woke up in an alleyway with a drunken petty noble rutting against his thigh. There was no slow pull from consciousness, not soft light drawing him awake, only a jolt of adrenaline jerking his legs into action and his body away. 

The noble didn’t even notice anything was wrong. He giggled, stumbled, and tumbled over into a pile of trash, leaving Yuuri to run off, feeling unbelievable dirty and hoping that was the only thing that’d happened while he was passed out.  

At least it was festival season. He’d managed to misplace his wallet, or maybe he’d left it with Phichit - last night was an awful, awful blur. Alcohol-induced headache (he could never handle his liquor, apparently a gift from his father who had died too early for Yuuri to properly hate for it), bawdy brothel surrounded by selfish, uncaring nobles (the dancers there worked  _ hard _ , dammit, they weren’t objects), a too-familiar face staring up at him in terror-

_ Victor! _

Yuuri almost fell down all over again. That had been a dream, it must’ve - Victor was dead. Long dead. Twelve years dead. 

_ Gods _ , had it really been that long? 

Twelve years, and Yuuri still ached with guilt, ached to feel those gentle hands pulling his glasses off, running down his thighs. 

_ “No, no, don’t take him away, it was my fault-” _

_ “He’s not yours, you brat, I bought him, I  _ own _ him.” _

_ “He doesn’t want you, leave him alone!” _

_ “What a slave wants doesn’t matter - but so long as I can’t fully claim him,  _ no one can.” 

Yuuri’s glasses, mercifully still attached to him, blurred at the sudden tears. The hangover was still heavy in his throat, and he sunk to his knees, vomiting up the last, bitter traces of everything he’d ingested the day before. He wasn’t in the red light district anymore, and a few respectable citizens glanced at him empathetically - this was a common occurrence, this time of year. 

He needed to sleep. It’d been so long and he was still hallucinating a dead body kissing him, holding him like he used to when they were young - he was the heir to the Cialdini fortune and house, a position that had taken no small effort to get, and he was letting the past drag him back like the awful beast from Ganymede’s myth. 

The guard standing by outside Celestino’s mansion almost shooed him away, taking him for a vagrant - and he burst out into booming laughter when he recognized sad, dishevelled Yuuri. 

Yuuri scowled. If that wasn’t insult to injury. 

The wide, carved, mahogany doors ground open with much force of will, and Yuuri almost crashed straight into his caretaker, on his own way out into the sunshine. 

“Good  _ lord _ Yuuri,” Celestino raised an eyebrow, “Please tell me you didn’t do anything I’ll need to defend to the other nobles in court tomorrow.” 

“Didn’t,” Yuuri mumbled, a deep flush blossoming on his cheeks. 

“Good. They talk enough as is - you really should come with me some day. There’s more than one unpleasant whisper about how much time you spend at the dance studio,” Celestino wrinkled his nose, and Yuuri noticed his own hair and clothes looking a little rumpled, “Remember, you’re a  _ noble _ now. Dancing is for actors and slaves. Your former guardian knew that.”

It was bad enough that he’d had a drunken vision of Victor - now Celestino was guilting him with thoughts of Minako. 

Celestino noticed Yuuri’s trembling lower lip and patted him on the cheek. “I’m just looking out for you, Yuuri. We don’t look alike, so those  _ vultures _ will look for any excuse to expose you for a bastard, a fraud.”

“I am, though,” Yuuri said, miserably. 

“No, you’re not,” Celestino repeated the lie firmly, “You’re my nephew, the son of a runaway eastern princess, and the heir to my house.” His expression softened then, somewhat, and he ran his thumb over Yuuri’s lower lip. “Go get cleaned up. I left your allowance in my desk drawer.” 

“Celestino,” Yuuri mumbled, “Could you, um…” He dipped his head down so the top of it was to Celestino, so Celestino couldn’t see the flush on his cheeks.

Celestino let out a booming laugh and ruffled the sweaty strands of Yuuri’s scalp, pulling him into a firm hug before running off out the door. It was embarrassing, but Yuuri loved when Celestino ruffled his hair. It reminded him of his own biological father, of his childhood at the dance hall, of warm, steaming baths and hot food. 

When Celestino did that, it made Yuuri feel a little more at home, even in the confines of his new role in society.

What an absolutely demoralizing day it had been. With Celestino gone, Yuuri didn’t bother with modesty and stripped down to his underwear in the middle of the foyer. A servant picked his clothes up deftly, and he caught another flash of Victor in the movements before reminding himself firmly that Celestino kept  _ servants _ , not  _ slaves _ . 

Maybe he could blow some money on something frivolous to feel better. He pushed open the door to the master bedroom, eyes sliding to the intricately carved writing desk-

Yuuri flushed down to his toes. He tried to speak, but his voice came out a horrible, high-pitched squeak. 

Phichit, completely naked, leaned over the desk, feeling around deep inside for something. He started at the noise and turned, eyes wide and flashing with a thrill of fear.

Yuuri’s thoughts flashed from his naked friend, to the bedsheets, tossed haphazardly on the floor, to Celestino’s rumpled appearance. There was a bright red handprint on Phichit’s ass.

“Hey Yuuri,” Phichit trilled, trying to maintain his normal cheery demeanor, “Did you enjoy my surprise?” 

It was too much, too much for one day. Yuuri boiled with anger, and he balled up an article of Phichit’s crumpled clothing from the floor, tossing it at him with as much force as he could muster.

“You  _ ass _ ,” He snapped, throwing a sock, a waistcoat, his dirty underwear at his friend, “You absolute  _ bastard _ -”

“Hey!” Phichit squawked, cowering to avoid the avalanche of clothing thrown at him, “Hey, Yuuri what’s gotten into you?”

Yuuri let out a loud, frustrated groan. He looked around at the floor, only to find that he’d thrown all of Phichit’s clothing back at him, and he flopped onto the stained bedsheets with his head in his hands. 

“Yuuri!” Then, softer, with a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Yuuri, what’s wrong?” 

Phichit’s voice floated through a fog. Yuuri’s arms, crossed in front of his eyes, were wet - Yuuri hadn’t even realized he was crying. 

“What’s wrong?” Phichit asked again, leg warm and pressed against Yuuri’s side, his fingers running softly through Yuuri’s short hair. 

Yuuri took a deep breath. It wasn’t just that he’d seen a ghost, it was that there were a hundred ghosts haunting the dance halls of his memories. 

“Did I… Did I tell you I grew up around places like that?” Yuuri murmured, shifting onto his side. 

“Places like what?”

“What do you think?” Yuuri snapped with uncharacteristic venom, “Where’d you leave me last night, Phichit?”

“Oh,” Phichit said, flatly, a hint of guilt in his tone, “I thought… I woke up and thought you might’ve decided to spend the night with someone there.” 

“I threw up and passed out in an alley,” Yuuri said, flatly. “And woke up with some drunk noble humping my leg.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Yuuri.” This time guilt practically  _ dripped _ from Phichit’s words. “I didn’t… If I’d realized…” 

The old itch to shove his fingers down his throat and vomit popped into his mind for the first time in a  _ long _ time, but luckily the solid weight of his friend at his side held him down. Yuuri swallowed down a sob and let Phichit rub soothing circles into his back. He murmured sweet, calming nothings into Yuuri’s ear in a language he didn’t understand, and Yuuri let them wash over him. 

He almost didn’t realize when Phichit asked, in English, “You grew up around dance halls?”

Yuuri nodded, wiping at his eyes. “Before I came to live with Celestino, my family actually ran one of them. It’s where I learned to dance. We only hired free people, though, not like-”

Phichit winced.  _ Not like Ice Castle _ , went unsaid. 

“The clients were still pretty brutal, though. My dance teacher, Minako, kept having to shoo them away from me. I was a kid, barely eight years old! How could they want me?” He closed his eyes, “At least I had her, though, and no one forced me-”

His voice cracked like glass, and Phichit lay down beside him, warm and comforting.

“Shh, Yuuri - I’m sorry, take your time…” 

Yuuri shook his head. The way most of the nobles talked about dance halls, the workers within them, was callous bordering on cruel. Most days it was fine, but after his ordeal the night before, Yuuri’s anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. 

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Phichit picked up, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s shoulder, “Tell me, Yuuri.”

Yuuri frowned, pulling Phichit’s body, sweat still cooling on his skin, closer to him. “What do you know about the Ice Prince?” 

If Phichit was surprised, he didn’t show it. He narrowed his eyes, though, and asked, “Why? Did he… Was he someone who tried to hurt you?”

“No, no, he-” Yuuri closed his eyes, remembering, “After Mom and Dad and Mari died, Minako won the favor of this nobleman, and we went to live with him. I was, what, nine? And he had this beautiful barbarian slave, a few years older than me. I got this puppy crush that morphed into what I thought was  _ love _ . It lasted about four years, but gods, the way his eyes would sparkle just for me…”

Phichit nodded, hands rubbing Yuuri’s bare back.

“I was a dumb kid who read too many pulpy novels and fancied himself a swordfighter, a dashing hero who was ready to save the damsel - but this nobleman was a jealous  _ bastard _ and thought I was some kind of threat. What kind of insecure freak is jealous of a twelve year old?”

Phichit laughed, but there was a hard edge to his laughter. 

Yuuri let out a noise in agreement. Then, tears beaded in the corners of his eyes again, and his voice wobbled as he continued. “He killed him, took him away and strangled him. Then he kicked me and Minako out, and then he fucking died of some pox outbreak, and, well, you know the rest. But Phichit - last night, I swear I saw him, playing Ganymede at the Ice Castle. Gods, I think I’m going insane.”

Phichit sighed into Yuuri’s chest. “Maybe,” he acknowledged, “But maybe you’re not - after all, it’s in a nobleman’s nature to lie when it suits him.” 

Yuuri frowned. He thought of Celestino, hiding his own sterility until it was unearthed by a simple dancer from the suburbs and used as leverage to get Yuuri to where he was. Hiding the fact that Yuuri wasn’t actually his nephew in an attempt to maintain his line’s connection to the royal family, his position as the king’s chief advisor. 

Was it just him, or was there a darkly cynical note in Phichit’s tone?

“How old’s the Ice Prince?” Yuuri asked, voice small and pleading.

Phichit frowned. “The owner claims he’s twenty two, but my sources tell me about twenty seven. A little old, considering, but better than a little young.”

_ A little young, just like the blonde slave _ . Yuuri ran through the numbers in his head - the ages would be about right, and Victor had always been so distinctive-looking… 

“I really am sorry, Yuuri,” Phichit fretted, brushing the sweaty strands of Yuuri’s hair from his forehead, “I was so drunk myself, I wasn’t thinking. If anything had happened to you…”

Yuuri sighed. Phichit was normally so unfailingly loyal, he couldn’t stay mad about one drunken piece of selfishness. And anyway, nothing  _ had _ happened. Yuuri pressed a kiss to Phichit’s warm, sweaty clavicle at a peace offering, and Phichit ran his thumb along Yuuri’s sticky cheek.

“I’m so tired,” Yuuri sighed, to change the subject, “and I smell gross.”

“You do,” Phichit agreed, not unkindly, “Go take a bath and a nap, but preferably in your own bed. I need to, um, Ciao Ciao’s sheets…” 

Yuuri flushed bright red for the second time since coming home. He dashed off the bed like it had burned him. In his exhaustion, he’d forgotten to be horrified that his caretaker was fucking his friend. 

He supposed, though, that Celestino was handsome enough, and anyway, he had no stake in what adults did in their spare time. It wasn’t like he and Phichit were exclusive.

  
Bath. Nap. Then, he was headed out to blow his entire allowance on a pipe dream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the meeting! I keep promising it but like for real this time. I'm going to be away for a bit without reliable internet, so that chapter might take a bit to get up, but hopefully that'll be less than two weeks.
> 
> I know this is kind of a shitty spot to leave a cliff hanger, that wasn't intentional, I promise. :P

Victor woke wondering if he’d been trampled in the middle of the night. Surely only horses galloping across his body could have caused such  _ unrelenting agony _ . 

He dared a glance in the small mirror in his room and groaned. Bruises, bruises everywhere - bleeding into each other on his thighs and sides and arms, ranging in color from blistered red to deep purple. God, he looked so old, so ugly, it was a wonder anyone still wanted him. 

One day, Yakov wouldn’t be able to keep lying about his age -  _ barely pushing twenty two, promise  _ \- and then his life would truly be over. 

Someone small shifted in his aching arms, and a new pain tugged at his heart. Poor Yuri - it looked like someone had made good on a threat to beat him into obedience. He had his own share of markings - rope burns around his wrist, hickeys trailing down his chest. 

There was a knock at the door and a familiar shock of bleached blonde hair appeared. He raked a bright green eye over Victor’s naked body, and Yuri’s, tucked into him, with a wince. 

“And here I was hoping for my turn,” Christophe said, wryly, putting two plates in front of him. 

“Hilarious,” Victor said, and winced when his voice came out barely louder than a whisper. His throat still ached. Everything still ached. “I couldn’t stop you, if you really wanted.” 

Christophe looked like a strange mixture of tempted and disgusted, and Victor’s stomach sunk. 

“Yeah,” Christophe quickly countered at Victor’s expression, “and get fired by Yakov by roughing you up even worse. You look like someone ran you over. You’re getting some time off, now that it’s not the first night of the festival, right?” 

Victor shook his head ruefully. “Double shifts, Count’s orders.” 

He stared down at the food in front of him, face sinking as he saw the meager bowl of porridge and sliver of hard bread before him.  _ Right _ , he remembered,  _ reduced rations _ . 

“I added a teeny bit more milk to yours,” Christophe whispered, conspiratorially, and Victor smiled gratefully.

At that moment, Yuri chose to jolt awake, the remnants of a nightmare leaving his eyes as he looked around the room in terror. He noticed Victor’s arms, wrapped around him, and shoved him off none too gently. 

Victor lay back, a rabbit exposing his belly, while Yuri came back to himself with violent, thrashing limbs. His skin was elastic, porcelain, young - it’d be as smooth as before in just a few days, and he’d be back to work like nothing had happened. The red rope burns would fade, the bruises would shrink to nothing. Nothing would remain except his memories, and even those would fade, after-

_ “Please, please, don’t hurt him, hurt me instead-” _

_ “Oh, I will, slut, I  _ will- _ ” _

They’d fade eventually, Victor was sure.

Yuri stood, shakily, and stormed out of the room without saying a word. Victor could see the blood crusted on his thigh from the night before. 

“I brought his food in here,” Christophe pouted, watching his retreating form with some measure of amusement, some measure of sadness. 

“Let him be,” Victor sighed, rolling over to face Christophe again, “I’ll bring it to him once he’s calmed down.” 

“Is he going to have a temper tantrum every time he’s told to do his job?”

Chris gave him extra food against orders, and sometimes cleaned him up after a particularly long day, but he was still a free man and could be callous about it. Victor knew better than to try and make him understand - it was asking too much. Even Yuri, born free, would never understand him completely.

“You don’t do that.” Christophe continued.

_ I did, at the beginning _ , Victor thought,  _ till they beat it out of me _ . 

He didn’t respond, though, merely dipped his spoon into the porridge and delicately took a taste. Christophe took that as his cue to leave.

Victor had polished off the bland mush in a few quick bites, and he nibbled at the bread. Even his jaw was bruised, and he struggled with his slice - the bits he ripped off scraped like sandpaper down his sore throat. Victor made a face and set it aside for later. 

It was probably early afternoon. Victor’s work wouldn’t start till the evening, so he had plenty of time to stretch and soothe his worst aches with mint, or more of Mila’s opium, if he was lucky. 

He found a freshly washed Yuri curled up in his dormitory with the rest of the chorus boys. He’d scraped his skin raw, and he was shivering in the cold, towel wrapped around his thin shoulders. 

“Brought you your food,” Victor offered, setting down the now cool bowl of porridge, much bigger than his own. 

“‘M not hungry,” Yuri pouted, eyes rimmed red. 

Victor could be like Chris, ask him if he expected to do this after every shift, prepare him for the things those who didn’t  _ know _ always said - but instead he lifted the spoon and pressed it to Yuri’s lips. Yuri opened his mouth pliantly and Victor spoon-fed him until Yuri grew frustrated with the pace and began shoveling the porridge down faster. 

_ So much for ‘not hungry,’ _ Victor thought.

“You should be resting,” Yuri snapped at him, eyeing him up and down with a mixture of shock and horror, “Not taking care of me. It’s not fair that you need to work again - you look half dead. The Count’s such a fucking bitch.” 

Victor tried not to wince too hard at that. He  _ felt _ half dead. “That’s blasphemous,” he murmured in mock seriousness.

“ _ You’re _ blasphemous, you goddamn barbarian,” Yuri snapped at him. Victor’s smile tightened, and he turned to stalk away. He’d had an awful night too, and he didn’t have to listen to such low blows just because Yuri was hurt.

Another boy decided to burst out in mocking laughter at that moment, piercing Victor, and Yuri tossed his bowl to the side and stood, fists up.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he snapped.

Then, when there was no response except the patter of a hasty exit, Yuri sighed and turned back to Victor, “I’m really tired, and I still hurt, really bad. I didn’t… I didn’t mean it, Victor.”

“I still hurt, too,” Victor reminded him, not letting him off the hook that easily. He pat Yuri’s cheek, though, and brushed a speck of porridge away from his chin. 

“Should’ve let me fight,” Yuri mumbled, relaxing slightly. “If I got beat up they wouldn’t make me work.”

Victor gestured to his entire body. “I wish you were right, Yuri,” he said simply.

* * *

 

Yuuri realized, somewhere in the winding maze of the red light district, that he had no idea where the Ice Castle was. Somehow, he’d suspected it’d be more prominent - a bright, flashing spot, clear above the run-down buildings and drab inhabitants thereof. 

During the day, the sultry appeal of this neighborhood was completely washed out. Men and women wandered about, covered by shawls and jackets in the cold, buying groceries or chatting on street corners. A few of them raked their eyes over Yuuri as he wandered through, sizing him up - wondering whether he was a lost noble in the wrong neighborhood, or looking for a midday fuck. 

One woman sauntered over to him, swaying her hips seductively, and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Lost, baby?” she purred at him, remnants of last nights lipstick cracked on her lips.

“Actually,” Yuuri said, realizing he would spend all afternoon searching if he didn’t ask for help, “Yes. Could you direct me to the Ice Castle?”

The woman looked taken aback, and more than a little disappointed, but directed him all the same. Yuuri foisted a few bills on her for her effort, and patted her on the cheek in a manner he hoped was comforting and not condescending as her entire face lit up. 

The Ice Castle, which had seemed so dream-like and delicious in the dark after drinking, was as unimpressive as the rest of the district. The silver-white paint was cracked and peeling, the sign old and hanging precariously off its hinge. 

Yuuri wasn’t quite sure what to do. He stood outside the door, cheeks flushing pink as a few boys wandering through snickered at him. 

“We can give you a good time for half the price,” one of them called at him.

“Not half the price - a quarter,” the other cooed. 

Yuuri frowned and didn’t respond.  _ That’s not something to brag about,  _ he thought. 

Eventually, he swallowed his pride and  _ knocked _ at the door. There was no response for a painfully long amount of time, during which Yuuri internally went through the five stages of grief, and just as he was about to turn on his heel and run, there came the loud click of multiple locks being unlocked and a creak as the door swung open.

Yuuri stared at the pretty young woman before him, opening and closing his mouth, suddenly at a loss for words. She stared him up and down with something akin to distaste. 

“Hi,” Yuuri stammered. “I, uh, I played Melchior, yesterday…”

Her eyebrows raised in sudden recognition, and Yuuri swore he saw a flash of anger in her blue eyes. His hands were suddenly very cold.

“I… I was, um, I had quite a bit to drink, and I didn’t conduct myself in a way b-befitting of my station,” Yuuri swallowed and posed in a way he hoped had some semblance of lordliness, “I wish to see the Ice Prince, again, so I may, um…” 

He didn’t finish the thought, because there was absolutely no way in hell he was going to admit that he was chasing a ghost. 

Her voice was careful, measured - masking something. “The Ice Prince does not begin his work until after the sun has set. I would ask that, unless my lord has a particular reason for appearing at this hour, he return-” 

“I need to speak with him,” Yuuri blurted out, feeling distinctly immature, heart hammering in his chest and hands tingling with panic, “I am the heir to the House of Cialdini, and… And…” 

The woman’s eyes went wide as dinner plates and something unpleasant spasmed across her face. Yuuri swallowed a thick, burning lump at his manipulation. 

“Of course,” she said, voice flat and emotionless, “Right this way.”

* * *

 

“He  _ what _ ?” 

Yuri was seething with an energy Victor couldn’t quite muster himself. Of course, of  _ course _ some childish noble decided he hadn’t been satisfied enough last night, and was coming in to reclaim his prize. 

“He’s waiting in the lobby,” Mila groaned, “Yakov’s distracting him. Yuri, you need to get Victor ready  _ now _ . Dunk him in a vat of concealer if you need to.”

“What do you mean  _ if _ ?” Yuri snapped. “Look at him!” 

Victor winced.

“And the opaque robe - the dark green one. And make sure you dim the lights before our client enters. I’m going to tell the young lord you’re off praying to Ganymede, then I’m going to get some smelling salts. You  _ can’t _ pass out.”

“He doesn’t even believe in Ganymede,” Yuri shouted after her, and Victor felt a strange stab of pain in his gut. 

Yuri limped around him, applying a thick layer of makeup to his face and chest - anywhere that would peek out from underneath the robe. A pink, shimmering dust of blush, a bright red lip to mask the bright red scab from where he’d bitten himself raw. 

His hands fumbled with the braid - they always did, and Victor shooed him away to twist the strands himself, wincing as Yuri applied another layer of thick white concealer to the deep purple bruises on his skin. 

Mila returned, briefly, to slide a sliver ring onto Victor’s finger. “Sniff this if you think you’re going to pass out,” she said. 

Victor nodded at her. “Any chance of me getting more of that opium after this?” he asked, wearily.

Mila had the good grace to blush. “I… Fuck, if I’d known…” she met his gaze, embarrassed, “I finished it off last night.”

“Addict,” Yuri snapped, dabbing a glittering sheen on Victor’s cheeks.

Mila didn’t disagree, and she disappeared again to distract the client. 

Eventually, they couldn’t stall any longer. Victor limped to a dimly lit private room and arranged himself in a sultry, inviting pose, dark green robe dangling off his shoulders, chest exposed and flushed. 

There, alone, he waited.

* * *

 

Yuuri wondered if he would ever grow to enjoy the attention his station awarded him. As soon as the woman led him into the garishly decorated foyer, he was offered water and wine by a pair of beautiful, half-naked slaves. 

His stomach was still churning from the day before - or was it from nerves at the faint, fading possibility - and he swallowed down the bile in his throat at the heady scent of fermented grapes. The owner of the establishment, a severe looking older man, spoke to him with a strange obeisance - it wasn’t slavish, blubbering. There was something more resigned to it. As though this was a position he loathed to be in.

“May I provide a spread for you?” Yakov offered, “Pickled herring, beet salad, ginger beer?” 

Yuuri shook his head. “No, uh, no thank you - do you know when Vi- I mean, the Ice Prince will be ready?” 

“He’s praying at the altar,” Yakov explained, placatingly. “Let me at least bring you a selection of sweets. Our chef makes a lovely chocolate croissant.” 

Yuuri’s heart stuttered and seemed to stop. Victor didn’t believe in their gods - maybe this had all been a mistake. His breathing was shallow, shaky. It would be infinitely worse to have this small measure of hope dashed before him than if he’d never had the chance to wonder. 

Yakov appeared to have taken his silence for consent, and Yuuri was startled out of his reverie by the blonde slave from yesterday, looking considerably worse for the wear, carrying a platter of chocolate pastries. 

“Victor’s ready,” he said softly. “I’d be glad to lead my lord to him.”

It was as though the entire world disappeared before him.  _ Victor _ . How long since he’d heard the name? 

Yuuri almost fell forward as he stood, head unbelievably airy. He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t hear anything but the loud pounding of his heart and the ringing in his ears. 

The decor around him faded into nothingness, the door before him seeming to tilt.

The blonde slave pushed it open, called out, “The young Lord Cialdini is here to see you.”

  
Yuuri stared at the man before him - undeniably, unbelievably _ Victor _ . 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Victor?” the lord asked, speaking with Yuuri’s voice through Yuuri’s soft pink lips.
> 
> No, Victor thought, beginning to shake, No, no, this is impossible-
> 
> “Victor, please, do you know who I am?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of sex involving underage people, both consensual (kind of) and not. 
> 
> Here's the official reunion! I hope you found it satisfying. I worry a little about their characterization - if something seems egregiously off, even considering how far from canon this au is, please don't hesitate to let me know. I rewrote it a few times but I figured this chapter would never get published if I kept doing that.
> 
> I also worry because the fic is pretty much straight angst from start to finish, with little bits of non-angst thrown in. I have the basic shape of the rest of the fic, but if you ever feel like you need a breather, please don't hesitate to let me know and I can add in something lighter involving these two. 
> 
> Next chapter coming next Sunday!

Victor fretted, picked at the edges of his robe. Even under the layers of maquillage, he looked old, washed out. He could see the cracked lines of the makeup - not just from Yuri’s sloppy application. 

He nearly leapt out of his own skin at the sharp  _ creak _ of the room door. 

The lord’s face was in shadow from the brightly lit hallway, but then Yuri slammed the door shut again, and suddenly he could make out the soft, round features - the glasses in front of warm amber eyes. 

He blinked, half expecting the face in front of him to morph, wondering if he was hallucinating again. 

It didn’t change, and Victor went completely cold. 

“Victor?” the lord asked, speaking with  _ Yuuri _ ’s voice through  _ Yuuri’s  _ soft pink lips. 

_ No _ , Victor thought, beginning to shake,  _ No, no, this is impossible- _

“Victor, please, do you know who I am?”

It was a hallucination, a cruel, cruel trick of the mind - he was finally going insane. He noticed, vaguely, that his breath was coming out in short, shallow gasps and that he was staring the lord directly in the eye - a punishable offense, but he was too terrified to care.

The ghost sunk to his knees before him, orange lamplight fluttering on his cheeks. He reached out to touch him, fingers warm and comforting. 

“Vi-Vitya, it’s me, it’s-”

“Yuuri,” Victor breathed at him, eyes burning. How long had it been since he’d heard that nickname? He decided then that it didn’t matter whether this Yuuri was a hallucination or not - he’d take it, enjoy it, let his lost love wash over him like a spring rain. “Oh god, you found me, you  _ found me _ -”

“I found you,” Yuuri nodded, eyes filling with tears, and Victor decided he was too shocked to cry - it was an easy explanation for why he  _ couldn’t _ . 

Yuuri pulled him into a tight hug, and Victor didn’t even mind the pressure against his aching bruises, too distracted by the warmth of his body and the chiseled edges of his muscles - so different than his soft, childhood roundness. He wrapped his hands into the fine fabric of Yuuri’s shirt, careful not to tear it, and buried his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck.

It was agony to part, but eventually Yuuri pulled back to cup Victor’s cheek, wiping a tear from his bruised skin gently. The glittering droplet surprised him.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered, like he was worried Victor would disappear at any moment.

“I thought  _ you _ were dead,” Victor replied, staring at Yuuri’s lips. How he longed to kiss them, but he didn’t dare without asking-

“I guess he lied to both of us,” Yuuri commented, sardonically, and his face crumpled into sobs again. 

Victor couldn’t stop himself. He kissed Yuuri’s forehead, his nose, his tearstained cheeks, feeding off the warmth of his skin as though nothing else could sustain him. He’d never need to eat again, the ache in his stomach was already fading, replaced by the hint of sweat and sweet cologne from Yuuri’s skin.

He lay Yuuri down, gently, and rest his head on his chest, listening to that blessed, bounding heartbeat. The opposite of when they were children, young Yuuri curled up into him, while Victor ran his fingers through Yuuri’s short-cropped black hair.

“Did I hear correctly? That you are the heir to  _ House Cialdini _ ?” Victor murmured in awe. “My Yuuri? The cute little piggy that used to dance with me?”

Yuuri pat his cheek and nodded. “Minako always took care of me. How she managed to gain the favor of such a lord, though, I’ll never know.”

“I have an idea,” Victor teased, but as soon as Yuuri processed the delicious upward tilt of his lips, the mischievous twinkle in his eye, the color drained from his face and he was stuttering an apology, “Oh, no, I didn’t mean, that must be such an insult to her…” 

“Shh,” Yuuri soothed, just as Phichit had done for him earlier that day, “You’re right, though, that’s exactly how she did it. She… God, there was such an art to the way she used her body to get us what we wanted. I admire it.” 

“How is she?” Victor asked, resting his cheek over Yuuri’s heartbeat, wondering if Yuuri admired him, too. “I remember she used to feed me cookies after my old master asked to see me.” 

Sadness clouded Yuuri’s expression, and Victor fixed him with a confused, beautiful blue stare.

Yuuri shook his head, and Victor let out a knowing sound, running his hand over Yuuri’s chest.

“Cookies!” Yuuri blurted out, suddenly, jolting up and almost knocking Victor clean off him. “Oh, I almost forgot-”

He opened the door, letting in a trickle of golden light, and turned to the plate of pastries. The little blonde slave was stuffing a chocolate croissant in his mouth, and when he saw Yuuri, the color drained from his face. It was almost funny, his eyes wide, his cheeks puffed out, a smear of chocolate on his lip.

Yuuri gave him a placating smile and picked off a few pastries to bring in. 

“Here you go,” he said, offering an eclair to Victor.

Victor’s eyes lit up, and he nibbled at the pastry, an almost orgasmic flush blossoming on his cheeks. “Mm, ah, it’s so good, Yuuri.”

“I caught your, uh, page? Server? Whatever he is, I caught him nibbling on a few of these himself,” Yuuri teased, taking a bite of his own croissant. 

The flush drained from Victor’s cheeks. He put his eclair to the side, sidled up to Yuuri, and bit his ear, sensually. “Ah, my little protege can be impulsive, sometimes,” he purred, and all of the feeling shot straight to Yuuri’s crotch, “But you don’t mind, do you?”

Yuuri frowned at the change in demeanor, despite the insistant warmth by his ear. “No, uh, of course not. He’s a kid, of course he wants sweets.”

Relief softened the features of Victor’s face, and he leaned down to lay his head in Yuuri’s lap.

(That was Yuuri’s first indication that something was wrong.)

* * *

 

Everything ached. Even his  _ toes _ were bruised. 

When he was with Yuuri, though, everything ached a little bit less. 

Yuuri, precious Yuuri, barely nine years old when they’d met. Victor had been older - twelve, maybe, new and fresh-faced and recently brought over on a creaking, stinking ship from the outlying territories. 

Bought by a cruel man with a penchant for the beautiful and too-young - and Victor had wept bitterly every night they were together, until  _ Yuuri.  _

They’d danced together, Yuuri’s leg pointed up behind him, the slight pudge of his belly sticking out above his pants, and the days they spent together stretched into an endless delight.

He remembered evenings after being summoned to his master’s side, lying in bed with Yuuri curled up beside him, helping him explore his body and blossoming sexuality. It was tentative, cautious, the way Yuuri’s hands curled over his hands - Victor vicariously experiencing the slow, gentle loss of innocence that came gradually with adulthood through Yuuri’s unblemished body.

Reading in the library, Yuuri snoozing, head drooping onto Victor’s shoulder as Victor pored through history books and legends and dramas. His master refused Victor access, but Yuuri risked more than a few beatings to sneak them both in, spending hours telling each other stories by the lamplight.

Yuuri seemed to him a manifestation of his god - appearing at the darkest times in his life to lift him up, provide some measure of comfort.

His Yuuri.

_ Lift him up, then disappear, leaving him in darkness again _ .

“How did you survive it?” Yuuri was murmuring, running his fingers through Victor’s long silver hair, “He told me he strangled you.”

“He did,” Victor admitted, “But he couldn’t kill me. He… He hated damaging his possessions, you remember.” 

Yuuri frowned at him, “Don’t call yourself that,” he chided Victor.

“It’s what I was,” Victor said, matter of fact, “what I am. He sold me off to a whorehouse by the docks, and he said he’d return when I learned to appreciate what he gave me. He never came back, though.” Victor fixed Yuuri with a deliriously happy stare, “He told me he strangled you, too.”

Yuuri started, hand flying to his neck subconsciously, “Oh, yes, he did - I think he might’ve actually killed me if Minako hadn’t found us and pulled him off. Then he forced us back onto the streets. I guess he hurt children because they were the only ones weaker than him.” 

“Mm,” Victor nodded, careful about what he could and couldn’t say. He trailed a few touches up Yuuri’s chest, teasingly, and asked, “My lord was to play Melchior last night, but last I checked, he was still a virgin.”

Yuuri blushed bright red and choked out a laugh. “Last you checked was a little while ago.”

Victor pouted, disappointed, “And here I was hoping I’d be your first.” 

“You were first in the ways that mattered,” Yuuri tried to say the words smoothly, but the stumbled out of him, water over sharp rocks. He’d read that in some lascivious, pulpy novel hidden in the back corners of Celestino’s library, about slaves and lords and court drama. “It was strange, in a way - I grew up around people who didn’t give a damn about virginity one way or the other, but were so intent on me maintaining mine, me having that perfect, special sexual debut.” 

“So, was it perfect and special?” Victor asked, trying to hide the note of jealousy in his tone. 

Yuuri shook his head, embarrassed. “I squandered it on a noble twice my age after drinking far too much champagne. Celestino was  _ furious _ \- he’s never been so close to having me beaten. Something about  _ ruining his reputation in court _ .”

Victor rolled his eyes at petty nobles and their petty secrets. As though all of  _ their _ sons weren’t screwing around, as though  _ they _ weren’t screwing around with their slaves, or their maids, or each other. 

Yuuri sounded so wistful, though, and Victor wanted to kiss the disappointment from his lips and sink down on his cock right then and there, awful, agonizing injuries be damned, roleplaying that  _ he  _ was taking Yuuri’s virginity.

"I didn't come here to sleep with you, though," Yuuri admitted, and Victor stared at him, shocked and a little nervous.

"Then what...?" he murmured.

Yuuri kissed him on the lips, deep and desperate, pressing his whole being into Victor's body. "I came because I wanted... We loved each other, then you were taken away from me, and I knew if I even had the slightest chance of seeing you again..." 

"Mm?"

"If you were alive, it was destiny. That you and I weren't meant to be apart."

The tower bells boomed once, twice, pulling Victor from the warmth of Yuuri's words. 

Yuuri’s eyes widened, and he jolted up. “Oh, damn, it’s… It’s been nearly two hours, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t mind,” Victor purred, trying to mask his desperation to keep Yuuri there, with him.  _ You can afford more time, right? _

“I don’t mind either,” Yuuri assured him in a strange, rushed sort of way, stroking his cheek and smearing a little bit of his makeup. “I need to get back for fencing lessons with Celestino - he gets so, so angry at me if I'm late. It's scary.”

Victor tried to swallow down his disappointment.

“I need…” Yuuri sighed, “I’ll be back, soon as I can. I’d sell everything to be able to see you again.” 

Victor nodded, because he didn’t trust himself to speak. He’d been stupid to think this would last forever, that he’d have more than just a  _ taste _ of peace. Of course Yuuri, lord Yuuri, had something noble and lordly to do. Eyeing him up and down, Victor was surprised he’d even recognized him, his hard lines and marble-cut muscles. 

He realized, with dawning horror, that he was  _ jealous _ . Yuuri had moved up, made a name for himself, and he was still the same plaything he’d been the night they departed. Yuuri didn’t wake up in the morning beaten black and blue. Victor was horrified, anguished,  _ angry _ .

None of it was Yuuri’s fault, he realized, and that was perhaps the worst part. Yuuri had simply outgrown him.

“Victor,” Yuuri murmured, tentative, noticing his change in mood. 

“I wish my Yuuri could stay with me,” Victor pouted, nuzzling into the crook of Yuuri’s neck.  _ My Yuuri _ . How long had it been since he’d called anything his own? 

“I wish I could too,” Yuuri sighed, voice a soft plea, a flash of some kind of fear in his eyes. He said a few other things, but they all faded into a background noise in the back of Victor’s head, swallowed up by the sadness of  _ Yuuri’s leaving _ .

_ He’s not coming back _ , a voice whispered to him,  _ he saw you and realized he could have a hundred men or women, he doesn’t need a used-up slave _ -

Victor groaned as Yuuri left and flopped down on the bed, letting the robes fall away from him. Suddenly, they were too tight. The room was too bright. Everything was just… Too much.

* * *

 

Yuuri ached at the thought of leaving. Celestino got really mad whenever he was late, and if he was going to talk to Yakov about buying Victor, he’d need some time to negotiate. 

He nodded briefly to the young slave by the door, and was a ways down the hall when he heard, “Hey, you forgot your bag inside the room.”

Yuuri hadn’t even realized. He turned on his heel and all but ran back to the room. Flustered, embarrassed, giddy to give Victor one last kiss goodbye, he swung the creaking door back open and saw-

And  _ saw _ .

* * *

 

Victor assumed it was Yuri, ready to soak in the gossip from a particularly strange client. Instead, it was  _ Yuuri _ \- flushed and frazzled, smile slowly dripping off his face as he eyed the bruises Victor couldn’t hide. They were purple, splotchy, ugly wine-stains on a white carpet. 

Yuuri swallowed. Victor blanched in horror and swept his robes back over his shoulders, but it was too late - Yuuri had seen. 

“I,” Victor started, covering himself, shivering at the attempt at modesty.

“Who… Who did this?” Yuuri asked, voice a static crackle of horror, anger. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Victor insisted, waving him away, “You’ll be late for your lesson-”

“Victor,” Yuuri whispered, sinking to his knees with an echoing crack on the hard floor, “Does this… Does this happen often?”

Victor winced. He looked away, ashamed, feeling unbelievably ugly. 

“Sometimes,” was all he could say.

“I didn’t…  _ God _ , why did I think…?” Yuuri’s voice was cracked at the edges, and Victor couldn’t bear to look into his beautiful, agonized amber eyes. “I’ve been chatting, reminiscing, and here they’ve been-”

“Yakov is  _ kind _ ,” Victor insisted, “Please understand, he’s a better man than anyone I’ve worked for.”

“That’s  _ awful _ ,” Yuuri said, and it sounded like a sob. He pulled Victor to him, nestling him in his slender arms, running his thumb over Victor’s cheek. “I couldn’t… I’d hoped you’d finally found somewhere better…” 

Victor needed to explain, say  _ something _ . “I have a patron, this place has a patron, who provides us generous donations which Master Yakov uses to provide us better medical care and access to food and facilities than many free people.” The words came out flat, mechanical, the ticking cogs of a clock. “In exchange, he can do whatever he wants. And what he wants is… is… to  _ hurt _ me.”

Victor’s voice cracked, and he touched the corners of his eyes as hot tears burned at the edges. Yuuri was in front of him, face bathed in warm orange light, and in a moment of impossible weakness, Victor sunk into his arms, fighting bitterly against the burning at the corners of his eyes. 

One night when he was about fourteen years old, his master had taken him into his room and tossed him out afterwards, split and shattered and shaking, and he’d been too weak to return to his room. He’d collapsed in the hallway, and that’s where Yuuri found him, round face illuminated by the flickering light of a gas lamp. 

He remembered crying there until the sun poked out from behind the mountains surrounding their estate.

Victor half expected to open his eyes and find himself back there, small and delicate and sewn back together in Yuuri’s arms. 

Yuuri’s warmth surrounded him, the softness of his arms replaced by hard muscle and power and strength. Victor sunk into it, soaking in the sweet words Yuuri whispered in his ear, the  _ drip _ of tears from Yuuri’s eyes onto his back. 

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Yuuri spat out, voice shaking, “I’m going to… You’ll never work again in your life. I’ll buy you, and I’ll find out how to free you, and we can dance together, just like before.”

Victor barely dared to hope. “Really?” he whispered, hating how childish his voice sounded. He was an  _ adult _ now, not some simpering teen. 

“Really,” Yuuri insisted, “What good is it being a lord if I can’t do this for you? I’m never letting you go, not again. Not this time.”

Victor imagined a future for the two of them desperately, lost in the moment and Yuuri’s arms. There had been a shift since their childhood in that mansion - back then, Victor had imagined the two of them in a house like the tiny cabin of his birth. They’d kiss and cuddle and dance as the warm light of the fire soothed their aches from a day’s work, just the two of them and Miss Minako.

Now, it was different. Yuuri could give him a mansion, and Victor would curl up in his lap, licking chocolate frosting from his outstretched finger. In the past, Yuuri’s eyes shone up at him with admiration. Now, Victor stared at Yuuri like he was a god.

_ All I ever wanted was to be your equal _ , Victor thought. 

“I want to be yours,” he whispered, because  _ equal _ was too much to say out loud. “I want you to take me away from here.”

“You can be mine if I can be yours,” Yuuri assured him, smiling into his neck. 

Victor recognized their childhood compromise, back when the thought of being on the same footing was too much to bear. Victor’s throat constricted at his backward progress. 

“I’ll take you away from here. It doesn’t matter how, I’ll do it.”

It was okay. Victor dared to hope, for a moment, that Yuuri was powerful enough to take him away. 

It was okay, he reminded himself, once it was just the two of them, he’d have plenty of time to progress further. For a moment, he had a flash of the two of them, lying together in bed. Yuuri would ask him, not command, never command - he’d ask him,  _ Vitya, do you want to sleep with me tonight _ ?

And Victor would say  _ no _ , or maybe he’d agree, because he loved Yuuri, but more importantly he’d be able to say no if he wanted to. No, I don’t want to tonight. 

Yuuri kissed him, then, in the present, soft and sweet, and Victor melted into the warmth of his arms.

* * *

 

It wasn’t till after he’d left, dazed and delirious, that Yuuri realized he hadn’t even brought a bag to begin with. He frowned and wondered why Victor’s ward had said that, then - had he wanted Yuuri to see the bruises? 

Yuuri shook his head and followed Yakov to a plain office chamber - bare walls, minimal decor, certainly none of the gaudy snow and ice that was draped along the more public areas and the private rooms. He sat in a comfortable, sensible chair, and accepted a cup of tea with shaking hands.

“How did my lord find the service today?” Yakov asked, the same flat resignation underpinning his deference, his polite acceptance of social hierarchy.

“Great,” Yuuri blurted out, then blushed down to his toes. If Yakov considered this an embarrassing answer, he didn’t indicate it, so Yuuri continued on, “So great, in fact, that I want to buy Victor. Um, the Ice Prince.”

Yakov raised an eyebrow, and his expression became that of a doctor telling a family their child had been diagnosed with consumption. “That’s… Difficult,” he said delicately, clearly trying to quell any outburst before it came. “There are two other patrons who have expressed your same desire, and-”

“I’ll pay more than them,” Yuuri cut him off, waving his hand, bolder than he’d ever been in his life. “Money is no object.”

Yakov smiled wryly. “That’s what both of them said. I’ll be honest with you, one seems a clear favorite for the purchase of the Ice Prince. If you can match him, I’ll consider you in the bidding.”

“Bidding?” Yuuri whined, and he winced at the childish lilt to his tone, “Why can’t I just… It can’t be that complicated!” 

“It is, unfortunately,” Yakov said. “And we need to take other things into consideration. I don’t want to send my best dancers away, where they’ll be hurt, or-”

“You mean like Victor was last night,” Yuuri growled, unable to stop himself. It was not normal for him to be this confrontational - but for Victor… 

An ugly, angry look settled on Yakov’s face, and Yuuri worried that he’d ruined his chances - he didn’t want to beg, but he’d get on his knees for  _ anyone _ if it meant saving Victor from whatever did that to him.

“Is there… Is there some way to prevent that?” Yuuri asked, placatingly, pleadingly, “I’ll… I’m going to buy him. I will. But in the meantime, I d-don’t want him to…” 

He cut off there, choking voice threatening to overwhelm him. 

Yakov softened, slightly. Yuuri wondered if he knew the depth of his feeling, or if he considered him just another bleeding heart noble who wanted a well cared for pet to fuck. It was so, so easy to pretend to be different - to say,  _I won't hurt him_ , without really considering how little power a slave had.

“It’s not cheap,” Yakov admitted, “There’s a man who pays a considerable amount to mark him.”

“I’ll match him. I’ll pay  _ more _ than him,” Yuuri vowed, thoughts creeping darkly to Victor’s shadowy patron. “And… I want to see him again soon, to be sure. I’ll pay whatever you need me to.”

“I can pencil you in for tomorrow evening,” Yakov agreed, pulling out a planner, “I’ll need to reschedule another client, but if you can match his rate plus interest, I’ll give the slot to you.”

“Done,” Yuuri said, too quickly, biting his tongue in his haste. 

Yakov didn’t say,  _ you don’t even know how much that is _ . He simply tallied up the total and handed it to Yuuri, whose stomach sunk at the rate. He’d need to ask Celestino for an advance on next month’s allowance if he wanted to do anything else this month. 

  
Still, though, he paid for all of it. It was a pittance to pay for time with Victor. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s his name?” Yuri asked, voice soft.
> 
> “Yuuri,” Victor responded with a dreamy smile.
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “No, no,” Victor explained, “Yuuri - that’s his name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, right on time! Not too much to say about this chapter, it sets up a few things that'll be important later. See if you can figure out what ;D

Yuuri was late to his lesson with Celestino. When he finally burst into the studio with a bang, Celestino eyed him with pointed displeasure, even more severe with his thick, graying eyebrows. 

“Late to practice? Spending the festival in a whorehouse?” Celestino remarked with raised brow, “This isn’t like you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri blushed. He could barely speak, because if he did, his heart might burst. “Sorry,” he said simply, not offering any further excuse. 

This seemed to annoy Celestino even further. “You’re not taking this seriously enough,” he snapped. “Don’t take advantage of my kindness by slacking off, Yuuri. I don’t need to give you these lessons, or an allowance.”

That snapped Yuuri back to reality. “What?” he spluttered, eyes widening, “My… My allowance? B-but…”

“Maybe it’ll do you good,” Celestino shouted, and Yuuri flinched back in fear. “Remind you what it was like before you came to live with me.”

Yuuri’s lower lip trembled, eyes threatening tears. He needed the money, how dare Celestino dangle this over his head-

He wanted to come clean, explain everything that had happened. Celestino hated slavery. Maybe with the force of his caretaker’s purse and power, he could convince Yakov not to sell Victor off to anyone else, and yet… And yet, there was something in the cruel, cold fire of his eyes that held Yuuri back. 

Celestino softened, suddenly, just as the first real tears bubbled up enough to almost fall. He stepped close to Yuuri, brushing a strand of black hair out of his face. 

“Come,” he said, “practice with me. Let’s not linger on unpleasant things.”

* * *

 

It was an awful, grueling day of practice with an awful, grueling pace. Celestino didn’t soften the regimen due to Yuuri’s hangover or more recent emotional turmoil - rather, he seemed to test him harder, push him further, until he was quite sure his skin was as mottled and bruised as Victor’s. 

_ Victor _ . Yuuri wondered what he was doing now. Hopefully resting, soaked in cooling creams and splayed out on a soft pillow. They weren’t going to make him work, right? They wouldn’t, they couldn’t-

What did the law say? Surely there was something preventing this.

Celestino let out a roar and sliced a thin line through Yuuri’s shirt, across the stomach. Yuuri gasped in fright and stumbled back, fell onto the hard floor - and suddenly Celestino was on top of him, blade pressed against his jawline. 

Fear made saliva pool in Yuuri’s mouth, but he didn’t dare swallow. Celestino lingered there for a moment, for far too long, but finally he sheathed his sword and stalked off.

“Distracted,” he muttered, angry. Yuuri wasn’t sure what he’d done, why Celestino was so mad at him, certainly he’d been distracted before - today, it seemed like nothing he did, or said, could placate his caretaker.

“Sorry,” Yuuri murmured again, slightly shaken, eyes downcast. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” Celestino sniffed, “I expect better of you tomorrow.”

Yuuri nodded, still on the floor. Celestino seemed to notice and crouched to his level, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Yuuri leaned into it gratefully. 

“Let’s get you patched up,” Celestino said, a twinkle of dark amusement in his eye. 

Yuuri nodded and followed him off the court, to a gilded changing area. He stripped down to his underwear and stared at his bare chest in the mirror - okay, not quite as bad as Victor had been, but there were still plenty of blue-black bruises, especially bright on his calves and around his wrists. He noticed a bright red stain, barely more than a sliver, along his stomach, and he stared at it in horror. 

“Ah, I may have gone a little overboard there,” Celestino admitted, bare-chested himself by this point, with Phichit trailing behind. “Here, let me-” 

He picked up a few glass bottles that he kept lying around the changing area - painkillers, disinfectants, cooling creams, all brightly colored baubles that signified his access to health and medicine. 

Yuuri shuddered - Celestino slid a gentle finger along the bright red line on his stomach, leaving a stinging burn as it slipped along. 

“I can do that,” Phichit piped up from beside him, “If you need to change.”

“Oh no, that’s alright,” Celestino murmured, seeming distracted. “If you wouldn’t mind taking our clothes, though.”

Yuuri frowned. That seemed like an oddly dismissive way to treat someone Celestino had been inside a mere few hours ago. 

Phichit seemed to think so too, and he picked up the clothing with a disappointed huff. 

Celestino didn’t notice. He rubbed soothing circles into the bruises at Yuuri’s wrists, knelt down to do the same at his calves, lifted a bottle of something to Yuuri’s lips, which he opened pliantly.

The pain seemed to numb immediately, and Yuuri smiled dumbly as Celestino began to rub circles into his aching shoulder blades. 

“Celestino,” Yuuri slurred.

“Yes, Yuuri?” Celestino breathed.

“I want to study more about law,” Yuuri said. “Slave law, specifically.” 

Celestino’s hands were gone immediately. “Why?” he asked, suspicious, “You know how I feel about slavery. You’re not thinking of buying one, are you?”

“No,” Yuuri lied quickly. Well, it wasn’t a complete lie - buy and set free, that was the goal. “I’m just… Interested in law. So I can come to court with you and know what’s going on.”

Celestino didn’t say anything and Yuuri ventured a glance upward to find him  _ beaming _ . He pat Yuuri on the back, laughing. 

“Good boy,” he said, “I’m glad you’re finally growing up. I’ll get you a tutor immediately, or, no- I’ll just have Phichit teach you. He knows a good bit about slave law.” 

Celestino’s hands slid down his back, now squeezing and caressing the muscle above his hips. A prickle of discomfort trickled down Yuuri’s spine. 

“You’ve grown up so much,” Celestino murmured, almost to himself.

“Phichit knows slave law?” Yuuri asked.

“I know  _ everything _ ,” came Phichit’s cheery voice from somewhere to Yuuri’s left. Somehow, Yuuri suspected he didn’t mean about law. Celestino’s hands were gone almost immediately, and Yuuri noticed how the tension slipped out of him.

Yuuri dressed, myriad of lotions slick underneath his shirt. He glanced at Phichit to find him grinning, giddy, bouncing up and down to get the hottest gossip from Yuuri. 

“I’m wanted elsewhere,” Celestino said, sounding disappointed, and he waved at the two younger boys before disappearing. 

Phichit linked arms with Yuuri. 

“Walk with me,” he gushed, “I want to know everything about him.”

* * *

 

Victor was on cloud nine. Truly, he was floating, mind so far above his body that he was sure it would be impossible to come back down. 

“Are you sick?” Yuri asked, feeling at Victor’s forehead for his temperature. “Did one of those wounds finally get infected? Will Yakov actually let you stop working if you’re that sick?”

Victor giggled, which just made Yuri prod at him even more intently, looking for some sign of illness before giving up and flopping down next to him in the cushioned parlor. It was dinnertime, right before their evening shifts started, and Victor was sipping on a bowl of thin broth, taste of chocolate from earlier still tingling on his tongue. 

“What’s his name?” Yuri asked, voice soft. 

“Yuuri,” Victor responded with a dreamy smile. 

“Yeah?”

“No, no,” Victor explained, “Yuuri - that’s his name.”

Yuri raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” he said, simply, “That explains the weird look you gave me when we first met.” 

Victor sighed and leaned back, stomach barely half full from his meager rations, “I thought you might’ve been him at first. I’m glad it wasn’t, though - Yuuri doesn’t deserve this life.”

“And I do?” Yuri snapped, hotly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Victor soothed him, “You don’t deserve it either.”

“And  _ you _ do?”

_ Yuuri’s eyes shined up at him in admiration. Victor preened at how, to Yuuri, he seemed elegant - so adult.  _

_ Yes, he thought, let me help you. Let me teach you the only thing I know.  _

Victor didn’t answer. He simply closed his eyes and remembered the taste of Yuuri’s lips.

* * *

 

Victor was so giddy with relief that even his evening appointments were bearable. He’d been worried about the pain and exhaustion, but with enough makeup, he was his normal, sexy self, and he all but pounced on his first client in his excitement to please him. 

His moans were especially loud, especially lewd, and he licked hot stripes up the lord’s stiff cock like it was sweet as the eclair from earlier. Victor took the entire thing deep in his throat in one go, eyeing the lord with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I, ah,” the lord gasped, wine-red face flushing even deeper, “I can see why they call you the best.” 

Victor grinned around the cock. That’s right, he was the best. He pursed his lips and sucked in his cheeks, humming softly and sending vibrations along the member in his mouth. 

The lord came in mere moments, and Victor found himself strangely disappointed when all he received for his efforts was a pat on the head and a silver coin. Where was his chocolate? 

At least he could use the latter to buy some new perfume, or something else frivolous and shiny. 

The second client actually wanted to fuck him, and it burned at first, but Victor found that if he pretended the man above him was Yuuri, the pain melted away, and he could moan with a genuine desire - even his pleas for  _ more, please more _ were genuine.

He thought about what Yuuri would do if he sucked him off. His hard, muscled thighs spread wide, Victor nestled between them. He’d kiss up and down the lovely, porcelain skin, leaving marks so long as Yuuri wanted them. Victor imagined he did, and he thought of Yuuri’s voice - would he still make that high-pitched keen, still whimper at what Victor’s mouth was doing to him? 

Maybe he’d be gruffer, now that he was older - maybe he’d grunt and grasp Victor’s long hair as Victor kissed the tip of his cock, push Victor slowly down until he’d taken everything in. He’d be gentle, Victor knew. 

Victor would suck him then, spreading his legs so he could take him even deeper, until Victor’s nose was pressed flush with the masculine trail of hair framing his cock. Yuuri hadn’t had much hair when they’d been separated - Victor wondered what his body looked like now.

He’d keep going until Yuuri was just about to come, then he’d pull his lips off with a  _ pop _ , relishing in the desperate whine he drew from Yuuri’s lips. 

The client thrust into him, causing a sharp burst of pain in his torn body, and Victor drew his mind back to Yuuri - he’d position himself on Yuuri’s saliva-slick cock, spreading himself wide so Yuuri could see how he was trembling, twitching just for him, and he’d sink all the way down in one swift motion.

Victor cried out as the client thrust into him, stared back with a lustful haze over his eyes. It didn’t matter what this lord looked like, he wasn’t thinking of him - he was thinking of riding Yuuri until his thighs ached and Yuuri’s cries echoed in time with his thrusts. 

“Oh,” Victor cried out at a particularly rough thrust, “Please, Y-”

He bit his lip, catching himself before the name slipped out. It was a cardinal sin to call out a wrong name during service. 

“Yeah,” the lord growled out, “Yeah, bitch, beg for it.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Victor moaned, gasping as the lord grabbed his braid and yanked it back to get a better angle, “Please, fuck me harder.” 

“ _ Gods _ ,” the lord groaned, thrusts more rapid, erratic as he neared completion, “You’re so good.”

“Thank you,” Victor sighed, relishing in the praise. He wondered how Yuuri would praise him.

“Whorehouses like this really know how to treat a client. Free men just don’t understand proper service,” the lord said, “But you do, right, slave?”

_ I know you like your little friend, but remember, my Victor - you belong to me. _

“I live to serve you,” Victor replied, and he hoped the lord didn’t notice how much more mechanical this answer was.

* * *

 

At the beginning of his evening, Victor thought giddy glee might be enough to dull the pain of his bruised body. By the end, he realized that had been purely wishful thinking, and that he really could’ve used a more intense drug. 

He slumped down in the bathroom with Yuri after a long night of work. Yakov had blessedly decided to reduce his shifts, a direct disobedience of the Count’s orders, a small rebellion Victor would be endlessly grateful for. 

It wasn’t like last night where he was too abused to even wash himself, but he still winced at the sting of soap on a few fresh cuts and the general bursting ache when he pressed against a bruise. 

Yuri scrubbed his skin, as he always did, like he wanted to flay it off. Some nights, his own cleaning caused more injuries than his clients had. 

“No one too awful tonight, right?” Victor asked as Yuri glopped too much cream conditioner into his hands and ran it through his blonde hair. 

Yuri shook his head, taking a few moments to speak. “Why does every noble think their cock is a gift from the gods?” he said, shortly, “It’s always ‘tell me how great I am’ and ‘tell me how much you want it.’” 

“The clients here do appear to have an inferiority complex as vast as their wallets,” Victor commented, admiring the wet silver of his hair in the mirror as he combed a softening oil through it. Last night had left him feeling used, like a throwaway rag. Tonight he felt better. Beautiful. 

Yuri stared at him in shock, then he burst out laughing. His eyes darted around the bathroom to make sure no one was around. 

“I wonder if they come here because they can’t please their wives,” he whispered, conspiratorially.

“No doubt,” Victor agreed. “So they get off on people who they don’t have to worry about pleasing.”

“Gods, that’s pathetic,” Yuri laughed, cruelly. “If only they could spend their money to not come so quickly - some of the old men who’ve fucked me have been worse than my boyfriend was when I  _ took his virginity _ .” 

Victor raised his eyebrows. This was the first time he’d heard about a boyfriend - he wondered if it was appropriate to pry further. 

Yuri seemed to realize what had slipped out of him and he flushed, covering his mouth with his hands. 

“Yuri-”

“Forget I said anything.”

Victor knew Yuri would just get angry if he tried to talk about it, so he went back to combing through his hair in the now tense silence. 

“Victor?”

“Hm?”

“How long had it been since you’d seen the fake Yuri?”

Victor nearly dropped the comb, but he caught it just before it clattered to the floor. 

“A  _ long _ time,” he said. “More than ten years.” 

Yuri looked at him, or more accurately looked  _ through _ him. “And he still… I mean, he probably just wanted to fuck you today, right?”

Victor frowned. Yuuri had barely touched him, but it still felt more intimate that all the men over the years who’d been with him. It made him feel more desired than years worth of clients had. 

“He just wanted to hold me,” Victor said slowly.

“I mean I guess that makes sense, earlier you looked like a corpse, who  _ would- _ ”

“It wasn’t like that,” Victor snapped, unable to quell an unusually strong flash of anger. “He wanted me, just… Not like that. Not that time.” 

“He still wanted you, though?” Yuri said, a note of desperation in his voice. Victor had a sneaking suspicion he knew what Yuri was getting at with his questions. 

“Yes,” Victor said, somehow confident in his answer, “Yes, he did. Not everyone is repressed and prudish as the nobles, not everyone cares what you’ve done.”

  
“That’s good,” Yuri murmured, still not looking at Victor. Then, half to himself, he mumbled, “I guess he did always like used equipment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri's boyfriend is exactly who you (probably) expect. He'll show up later, but he's in it so briefly, and their relationship is so "blink and you'll miss it" that it'd be cheating to tag the fic with it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I tried to get it out yesterday, but I've been pretty sick the past week or so. :( It's hard to do anything other than sleep, honestly, plus my medicine makes me pretty loopy. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, I've been trying to add in more insight into Yuuri & Victor's relationship, let me know how you feel about their interactions. It's been tough to balance Victor's position as a slave with his natural confidence from canon, so let me know if this is working for you. Have I said that already? I think I have, haha. Oh well, it still stands!
> 
> Next chapter is mostly written, so I should be able to get it out next weekend, and hopefully after that I can go back to updating 2x/week.

Law, as a subject, was exceedingly dull. Yuuri almost immediately regretted asking Celestino for tutoring in the subject when Phichit plopped down a massive, leather-bound tome full of  _ decree this _ and  _ ordinance that _ . 

It was a new day, and the thought of seeing Victor again so soon pounded at the back of his mind. Even if he had been fencing, he was sure he’d be distracted and wind up with worse bruises than yesterday, especially with Celestino making good on his promise to punish him for his behavior - and Yuuri certainly  _ not _ in his good graces.

After two hours of studying the laws of the land, Yuuri’s leg twitched, and his mind began to wander to the dance studio he sometimes slunk to to relax. Even the basics of slave law, and the horror of rules concerning the sale of human beings, became tedious when scratched in tiny print on pages and pages of dry technical text. 

Phichit noticed Yuuri’s glazed over expression and slid his hand down the front of Yuuri’s shirt. Yuuri blushed as Phichit tweaked a nipple and pressed his lips to the crook of his neck. 

“C’mon, pay attention,” he breathed into Yuuri’s ear, “Celestino will have my head if you don’t show some progress. If you like,” he kissed up the side of Yuuri’s neck, “I can reward you every time you finish a chapter.”

Normally, Yuuri would jump at the opportunity - fooling around with Phichit was one of his favorite things about living with Celestino. He hadn’t really known what satisfying sex was like until meeting him, and now he was  _ hooked _ . 

Yuuri frowned, though, and forced himself to push Phichit away. 

“I can’t,” he said, “I’m seeing Victor again tonight. I know it’s weird, but it feels a little like cheating.”

Phichit stilled his kisses, but didn’t remove his hand from Yuuri’s shirt. “You know he’ll have had sex with people since last seeing you, right?” he reminded him, not cruelly - just matter of fact. 

“I know,” Yuuri admitted, “But it’s different for him - he doesn’t have a choice.”

At that, Phichit did remove his hand. “You’re right,” he murmured, voice strangely detached. “I… You’re right.” 

Yuuri frowned. This was a strange reaction, and he wondered if Phichit was wrapping his head around Victor’s situation. Was it really so hard to comprehend for a free man? But then, had Yuuri really cared beyond polite distaste until realizing Victor was alive? Still subject to the whims of his masters, like before?

“Besides,” he said, to placate his friend, “I have been learning some things. Mostly that slave law amounts to ‘there are no laws protecting slaves.’” 

“That’s true,” Phichit said, a sharp bite of anger in his tone.

“It’s… Gods, it’s awful,” Yuuri burst out, “I mean, my parents’ place - there were  _ rules _ . Any client could be sued, or jailed, for treating a worker too roughly, if the worker hadn’t agreed to it. There’s nothing like that for slaves, it - anyone can do anything they want.” 

Phichit didn’t say anything, but his grip on Yuuri’s shoulder tightened. Yuuri shook his head and snapped the book shut, as though that would banish the laws within to oblivion. 

“I’m sick of this. Let’s go for a walk, it’s a beautiful day.”

Phichit winced. “I, uh. I’m not supposed to go out into the sun - Celestino says I’m getting too dark.”

Yuuri gaped at him, too shocked to be properly angry. “What?” he spluttered out, “That… That doesn’t even make sense. He’s always talking about how happy he is with his  _ own _ tan - it means he’s healthy and getting health energy from the sun’s light or something. Why doesn’t he want you to go out?”

Phichit shook his head ruefully. “I wish I knew,” he said, voice strangely tight. 

Yuuri shook his head again, and he grabbed Phichit’s arm. His wrists and calves still stung from their fencing match the day before, and a rebellious urge propelled him forward. It was strange, seeing Phichit so unwilling to disobey an order, and such a capricious one at that. 

“Since when do either of us really listen to  _ Celestino _ ,” Yuuri snarled, taking Phichit’s role in their relationship. “Let’s go enjoy the sunshine.” 

Outside, in the fresh air of Celestino’s gardens, Yuuri thought about laws. He thought about changing them, molding them,  _ fixing _ them - and how he could use the Cialdini name to do so. There was a sharp coldness in the air around them, and Yuuri’s breath puffed out in front of him.

Phichit giggled as he braided a set of plucked weeds together into a crown and placed it on Yuuri’s head. 

“King Yuuri,” he joked, lying back on the grass and letting the sun caress his golden skin.

Yuuri rolled his eyes and lay down with him, nestling into the space under his arm. He wondered, briefly, where Phichit had learned to braid plants together like that. It hadn’t been in the five years they’d been living together, he was sure. 

There was precious little Yuuri knew about Phichit. That wasn’t for lack of asking, though - Phichit had a masterful way of laughing and shifting the conversation just  _ so _ . It didn’t particularly bother Yuuri, who had his own fair share of dark corners he didn’t want to prod. And anyway, Phichit was unfailingly loyal, a dear friend and confidante. 

Getting him into trouble, but always there to get him out again. 

With a soft, peaceful smile on Phichit’s face and the sun on his sun-kissed skin, Yuuri felt a spark of anger in his chest for the way Celestino had been treating him - screwing him then offering neglect and criticisms as a reward. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Just because Celestino ostensibly supported the right causes, he still could be cruel and domineering, used to having what he wanted.

“Yuuri,” Phichit said, drawing him out of his reverie, “You should know… There are ways to compel someone to sleep with you, even if you are a free man.” 

Yuuri stared at him oddly. “I mean, of course,” he replied, a little put off by the seriousness of the subject, the suddenness, “I… I know there are laws about rape and sexual coercion.” 

Phichit didn’t respond, but Yuuri had the sneaking suspicion he hadn’t quite grasped what Phichit meant. Then, a dark thought occurred to him, and he sat up next to his friend.

“Phichit, is your thing with Celestino…”

“No,” Phichit assured him quickly, placing a placating hand on his shoulder. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m enjoying that a lot, though he’s not as good as you. I just… It’s something I’ve been thinking about. Just something to be prepared for.”

Yuuri wondered what had prompted this, what had driven this train of thought. He frowned, but Phichit didn’t explain further, choosing instead to lie back on the grass, closing his eyes as Yuuri ran his fingers through his short-cropped black hair - so Yuuri let his thoughts float to Victor.

* * *

 

Victor didn’t bother with applying makeup - Yuuri already knew about his bruised-blue skin, and he didn’t want to smear anything before his clients later in the evening. He twisted a few ribbons into his hair, though, just because he knew Yuuri always loved playing with it. 

Yuri had commented that he looked like a lovestruck teenager, and Victor couldn’t quite disagree. 

Normally, he was to pose on the bed in the private room, chest exposed, coy and wanting for the client - this time he couldn’t bear the wait, couldn’t count the threads in the blanket or stars painted on the ceiling. He paced around the private room, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet to ease the tension.

The door creaked open and Victor nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and met Yuuri’s shy, nervous gaze with giddiness bordering on hysteria. The door had barely clicked shut behind Yuuri before Victor flung himself at Yuuri, wrapping arms around him and digging his fingers into the firm muscles of his back.

“Yuuri,” Victor cried out, savoring the taste of the name on his tongue, “Yuuri, Yuuri,  _ Yuuri _ -”

“V-Vitya,” Yuuri stammered, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Victor’s neck. “I missed you, too.” 

Yuuri tried to pull back and Victor whined loudly, refusing to let go. 

“My Yuuri,” Victor murmured, childishly stubborn.

“My Vitya,” Yuuri smiled back, and Victor  _ melted _ at the nickname, just as he had the first day. “You look, um, you look g-good.” 

Victor preened - just what he’d wanted to hear. His appearance was a constant source of worry now that he was past twenty-five.  

“I brought you a gift,” Yuuri attempted, pushing a strand of silvery hair out of Victor’s eyes, pressing their foreheads together. “Let me show you.”

Victor released Yuuri from his arms, reluctantly, and he pouted all the way back to the bed as he watched Yuuri pull a silver-wrapped package from his coat. There was a shining bow wrapped around it, and Victor pulled at it delicately, careful not to tear the lovely crepe paper.

His eyes widened, and a trickle of saliva dripped from the side of his mouth. “Yuuri,” he breathed, “Are these…?”

Yuuri flushed, embarrassed. “You seemed to really enjoy the chocolate eclair yesterday, so I thought…”

Victor could’ve wept. Instead he leapt at Yuuri a second time, knocking him back onto the cushioned floor, kissing up and down his neck and jaw as Yuuri giggled beneath him. Yuuri gripped the back of Victor’s head and brought their lips together, briefly, corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. 

“Here,” Yuuri said, grabbing a chocolate from the box and pressing it to Victor’s pursed lips. 

Victor gobbled it up gratefully, moaning at the burst of sweetness on his tongue. “God, that’s amazing,” he sighed, resting his head on Yuuri’s chest. “You spoil me.”

“I’ll spoil you even more once I get you out of here,” Yuuri said. 

Victor smiled, a small spark of hope blossoming in his chest. It was daring in its mere presence - every once in a while, he’d have someone who claimed they wanted him all for themselves, but none of them ever made good on their promises, not that he’d ever wanted them the same way he wanted Yuuri. With Yuuri he allowed that spark to flutter and grow inside of him.

“Let me show you my appreciation,” Victor purred at him, salivating at the thought of more chocolates, of recreating his fantasies about Yuuri from the night before on Yuuri’s own cock. He kissed a trail down Yuuri’s clothed chest, pausing at the front of his pants, teasing.

Yuuri pushed him away. A spark of fear flickered in his chest, and Victor wondered what he’d done wrong - had he been too bold? He’d always thought Yuuri liked that, but maybe he’d changed… 

At Victor’s fearful expression, Yuuri pressed a placating kiss to his cheek, his lips. “Not yet,” he said, “I want to - gods, I want to so bad, but I want to wait until you’re free. It doesn’t… It doesn’t feel right otherwise.” 

“Yuuri,” Victor said, rolling his eyes, heart still pounding from the rejection, “That’s what I’m _here_ for.” 

Yuuri’s face screwed up in something like pain, heartbreak. “I just… I want our first time to be special.” 

“It’ll always be special if it’s with you,” Victor murmured against Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri popped another chocolate into Victor’s mouth instead of responding, and he savored it through his disappointment. He knew Yuuri wasn’t intending to deprive him, but he’d been fantasizing about Yuuri’s cock since he woke up. 

_ This is all I have to give you. You have your title, your house, your sweet chocolates. I have nothing to offer if you won’t let me fuck you.  _

It had taken years for Victor to find his tentative footing with Yuuri, to break through the scarred-over welts that taught him his place, and that had come from him latching on to how much Yuuri idolized him. Would it take still more for Victor to find it again with this shift in power?

Suddenly,  _ Yuuri _ was the unattainable, the powerful Melchior above, and the world had left Victor behind.

Victor shook his head. Yuuri was saying something. 

“I never told you how much I appreciated you,” Yuuri murmured, fingering the ribbons in Victor’s hair. Victor preened at his good decision. “I always meant to, but then you were gone, and I couldn’t.”

“Me?” Victor shook his head in disbelief. 

Yuuri nodded. “After my family died, I could barely move. If Minako hadn’t been there, I would’ve just curled up and died.” His fingers stilled on Victor’s head. “Then I saw you, and you stirred something in me that I thought was gone. You made me want to dance again.”

_ You made me want to live again _ , Victor heard. It shocked him, that he could’ve had the same effect on Yuuri that Yuuri had on him, something deeper than pure aesthetic admiration. Something was bursting in his chest, and he clung to Yuuri, overwhelmed with love. 

Somehow, he’d never considered that. They’d met at such a vulnerable time, and yet, Victor had only ever been able to think of the profound way Yuuri had changed him. The shock to his system he got from being treated like a human being - the way they’d settled into a comfortable companionship. 

The taste of freedom he’d felt as he and Yuuri came up with another scheme to outwit his master, the ability to choose - stamping it down for a second time had been agony, and now it threatened to burst out of him again, brought back after a few too-brief moments of contact.

He’d known Yuuri admired him, but had he truly changed his life? Saved it? Was he really capable of such a thing?

“I actually,” Yuuri began, seeming embarrassed, “I was wondering… Do you remember how we used to dance together? I mean, probably not, it was so long ago…” 

“Of course I do,” Victor assured him. He closed his eyes and reimagined the way Yuuri pressed against him, the full-body contact, the warmth - as though it had only been a week, and not twelve long years.

How could Yuuri love him so much after so long? How could Victor learn to accept it again with the threat of heartbreak lurking in every corner of his memory? 

Was it worth it, living with himself while scrounging for some sense of identity?

Yuuri’s face split into a sunny smile. “Oh, good!” he cried, and he helped Victor up, standing himself. “Do you want… I mean, it might be nice…” 

_ There _ was that shy child Victor had known all those years ago. He kissed Yuuri’s cheek and put his hand on the curve of Yuuri’s waist, gripping his other hand and kissing that, as well. 

Even though they were both adults, fully grown, the height difference was about the same. As though this had been destined, Victor thought. Was everything he’d been through worth this peace and softness? 

Maybe that was the wrong way to think about it. There was so much  _ wrong _ in the way he’d been taught to think. So he decided not to - think, that is. He’d take this moment that Yuuri was giving him, whatever it meant, and allow himself some measure of happiness and humanity. 

Yuuri’s face was flushed, his eyes shining behind thick lenses. “Vitya,” he said, voice cracking at the edges, shoulders shaking. 

“My Yuuri,” Victor breathed, easier this time, and he held him close as they twirled around the room.

The room disappeared as Yuuri pressed against him. It was warmth, comfort, safety. 

Victor never wanted it to end.

* * *

 

Yuuri was giddy as he arrived back at Celestino’s estate, side still tingling where Victor had placed his hand. 

After his parents had died, men had circled around him like vultures, ready to pick him apart in his vulnerable state. If it weren’t for Minako, he would have either died of grief, or suffered a fate worse than death in a dockside whorehouse.

Suffered a fate close to what Victor had, Yuuri thought grimly, as an aside. 

It had been difficult for Minako to find a noble that didn’t want to take them in just to get access to him - and even Victor’s former master had an unhealthy interest, but one that he mostly hadn’t acted on. 

Victor was the first person, aside from Minako, who had treated him with any measure of kindness, a genuine desire to befriend him. Sure, Victor had started out with an unhealthy corroboration of friendship and ownership, but that was just everything he’d been made to believe, and with time he’d learned that loving someone and controlling them weren’t mutually inclusive. 

And sure, they had done  _ things _ , but that came later - at the beginning, there was just him lying on his side as Victor practiced his dances, eyes trailing along with the arabesques and plies, and Victor taking his hand and telling him,  _ come, dance with me, Yuuri _ , bringing him back to life. 

“ _ Yuuri!” _

The low, guttural moan snapped Yuuri out of his reverie and his eyes darted around the dark room. He was completely alone in the foyer, all the servants asleep - he shook his head, clearing his mind of the past, which was pressing against him so strongly it was making him hear things, apparently. 

He sighed and decided it was time to sleep, and he crept quietly along the upstairs corridor to his bed. 

_ Creak, creak, creak _ .

Yuuri looked around in fright, heartbeat thundering in his chest. Who was there? Was someone creeping up behind?

The creaking sounded like it came from Celestino’s room and Yuuri strained his ears to hear.

_ “Gods, please, please-” _

Oh. Yuuri blushed down to his toes, horrified but somehow unable to to move, ear pressed against the door to the master bedroom. 

_ “Please, I need it, I need to come, ah,  _ ah-”

_ “Can’t you hold out a little longer?” _

_ “I can’t, I can’t, please let me come Celestino-” _

_ “Beg for it, beg for me-” _

_ “I want you, I can’t come without you, please, I’ll do anything, take the ring off and I’ll show you how good I can be-” _

Yuuri swallowed, covering his mouth with his hands as though that would stop the heat from pooling in his belly. Phichit was making high, desperate noises through the door, but Yuuri still heard the giddy giggle in them, and he regretted for just a moment that he’d rejected Victor’s advances earlier. 

Then, suddenly, Phichit was crying out in desperate abandon, babbling  _ thank you, thank you _ again and again and again. 

Yuuri pictured Victor doing this to him, slipping a cock ring on him and teasing him until he was a begging, blubbering mess. He blushed and realize he knew  _ exactly _ what he was going to fantasize about, alone in his room. 

The bed creaked again, and Yuuri tiptoed away as quickly as he dared, but not before he caught the last snippets of their conversation. 

“How was I tonight, Ciao Ciao?”

“Fantastic, Phichit. I’m going to work for a bit, but feel free to sleep in here.” 

“I’m glad I can please you,” Phichit responded, voice fading as Yuuri crept away from the door, “Even if I’m not Yuuri.”

  
Shocked stilled Yuuri’s movements, and his blood ran ice cold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that last scene clear? I hope it was clear. They'll discuss it later, in case it wasn't. 
> 
> It also marks a turning point in the story, one where Everything Goes Wrong. I do plan on ending this, & giving it a happy ending, but that won't be for a whiiiiile.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underage tag is back, as requested by a comment a bit ago. There's more mentions of it than originally anticipated, though once again none of it will ever be graphic/on screen. 
> 
> I'm sorry for not responding to anyone's comments recently. I still very much appreciate everything you've all had to say about the fic, but I barely even have time to get on here and post. Ahh, life.
> 
> This chapter hurt to write, and the next few will hurt, as well, both on Yuuri's end and Victor's. Brace yourselves, and know that there will be some happier stuff at the end of the tunnel! 
> 
> We're also getting into exam season, so while I expect the next chapter will be up on schedule (so on Sunday, posting 2x/week was wishful thinking ;_;), there might be a bit more of a wait after that.

When the Count showed up a full two hours early to his normal appointment with Yakov, Victor knew something was horribly wrong. He also was pretty sure, though he hoped he was mistaken, that somehow this was going to wind up worse for him than for anyone else. 

The count’s beastly slave stood behind him like a solid oak statue, and Victor crept back and away from the foyer, hoping he hadn’t been seen.

“Ah, Ice Prince,” the count called, and Victor cursed his bad luck. “Come with me.”

Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good. Victor stared down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. The memories of his meeting with Yuuri were still fresh in his mind, and he clung to them as he followed the count down the too-long hallways towards Yakov’s office. 

Yakov seemed to share his sense of dread, judging by the gray tint to his face. Victor could barely breathe, and he turned at the soft patter of footsteps to find Mila behind him, ready to be the muscle she was hired as. 

“I paid good money to do whatever I wanted with him,” the Count snapped at Yakov. “What’s this I hear about a protection fee?”

Yakov swallowed, but there was a defiant glint in his eye. “Another lord paid a fine sum to ensure he was unmarked. His pockets were vast, and therefore I was unable to refuse him.”

“Who was it?” 

“You know very well I must respect the confidentiality of my clients to the utmost-”

“ _ Fuck you _ , Feltsmann, tell me who bought my slave.”

“Victor is property of the Ice Castle, and as such-”

“He’ll be mine soon,” the Count roared, and Victor jolted. Did the count intend to buy him? God, he hoped not.

_ Hurry, Yuuri _ , he pleaded inwardly. 

The Count huffed and paced back and forth, raging and frothing like an ocean wave. Faced with a force as powerful as his own, Victor was able to catch a glimpse of the childish bully he knew his tormentor was. 

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, though he still shook at the thought of whatever punishment he knew was coming.

This was a strange, awful game, the one the Count was playing. There was no way of knowing whether Victor’s  _ current _ patron, the one who’d paid for his protection, was the more powerful of the two nobles - though it was a fairly safe bet. The Count was clearly on a lower rung if he was the patron of a  _ whorehouse _ . 

Victor saw the wheels turning in his mind. It was a subtle power play, the push-pull for dominance over another man’s possessions, weighing the possible consequences of overstepping his station, with Victor’s body facing the brunt of their struggle.

Finally, the Count stopped pacing, and pointed at Mila as though he wanted to slice through her. 

“You, girl,” he shouted, “Go fetch the slave’s little blonde ward.”

The room turned to ice.

“ _ No, _ ” Victor and Mila cried out at the same time, Victor desperate, Mila furious. Yakov’s eyes slid to him in shock and Victor clamped his lips together in desperation. 

Victor realized in that moment that he’d misunderstood. It wasn’t a subtle power-play against the other noble - there was no way of knowing whether Yuuri would care if little Yuri got hurt (though Victor was sure he would). It was a cruel, cruel slap against him alone, for daring to win the heart of another. 

For speaking to someone like he deserved protection at all, deserved some basic, decent treatment because he was a human being-

Victor met the Count’s eye for a brief moment and found a pit of unfeeling, unfathomable cruelty.

“ _ Fetch him _ ,” the Count roared, and for a few blessed moments Mila stayed put. Then, crumpling under the weight of her position, she grit her teeth and ran out. 

_ Why,  _ Victor thought, biting his lip to stop from crying out,  _ why are you doing this? _

“The lord didn’t pay a protection fee for him, did he?” the Count snapped. 

“Don’t,” Victor pleaded before Yakov could respond, or tell him to be quiet, “Don’t… Please, leave Yuri out of it. I’ll tell the lord to stop paying, you can even have me now, I know he’ll be understanding. He won’t be mad.”

The last part was to Yakov, to assure him he wouldn’t lose money if he sent Victor out in Yuri’s stead. He sunk to his knees and kissed the Count’s boots one after the other, pleading with a cold, agonizing numbness pooling in the pit of his stomach, “Don’t take Yuri, you’ll kill him.” 

“He’ll be fine,” the Count waved him off, though Victor saw the hint of a smile at the sight of him on his knees, at the fact that it  _ didn’t matter  _ if Yuri was fine after. “I’m sure you were doing worse things when you were his age.”

_ And they nearly killed me, _ Victor wanted to scream. A flicker of a wooden floor, of hands fisted in his long hair - and in a moment, it was gone. All that was left was cold. 

The Count continued, “And besides, this is a message to whoever this  _ lord _ thinks he is. You’re mine, Ice Prince, and I’m going to make sure he knows it.”

“ _ Then why not just punish me _ ?” Victor shouted, then gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. His disobedience echoed throughout the office, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears.

The Count crouched to his level and yanked him up by the hair at the top of his head. He whimpered at the pain, and he mumbled  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ over and over again.

“I am punishing you,” the Count hissed, and Victor couldn’t even take comfort in the slight falter in his voice by Victor’s barest of infractions, “but don’t worry, I have something more physical in mind for later.” 

At that moment, the door slammed open, and Victor’s heart sank as he saw Yuri’s eyes flit to the Count, to Victor, hair in the Count’s punishing fist, no idea why he was there. He let out a sob and slumped to the floor as the Count released him. There was nothing he could do, no leverage he could wield - his life was moulded by the whims of cruel men, just as it had been when it began, just as it would be when he died. 

He wanted to say he was sorry, but no words could convey the deep guilt churning his gut. There was nothing. He was nothing. 

“C’mon, you’re coming with us,” the Count said, sort of fuzzy and far away.

“Wha? No, but-”

“Yuri, for once,  _ hold your tongue _ .”

That was Yakov. Victor heard the click as Yuri’s jaw snapped shut, and he dared to look up from where he was slumped on the floor - just in time to catch the Count’s beast dragging Yuri away by one matchstick arm, just in time to see the frenzied terror in Yuri’s eyes as the office door closed behind him. 

“Oh god,” Victor whispered, bile rising in the back of his throat. He was going to cry, scream, throw up on the floor. He clawed deep scores into his trembling arms at the awful, aching  _ fear _ . “Oh  _ god _ , no,  _ no _ -”

He let out a sob, beat his fists on the floor, and his entire body seized up in horror as he wailed. No one helped him, but no one told him to stop.

So he didn’t, and he hoped the Count could hear him.

* * *

 

Yuuri could barely focus. Normally, he was glad for time alone with Phichit - Phichit was his only real friend, but today… 

Phichit, who was fucking his caretaker, the closest he’d come to a father figure since his actual father died,  _ because his caretaker wanted to fuck  _ him. Or at least, that seemed like the reason - Celestino clearly wanted him, and it seemed Phichit was obliging. 

It made him sick. He’d picked at his toast and coffee when he’d woken for breakfast because he couldn’t force anything down. 

How had his whorehouse owner parents, his guardian Minako, raised someone so prudish? Was this prudishness? Yuuri shook his head, deciding it wasn’t. After all, even they drew some lines - even as he matured, Minako  _ never _ tried to sleep with him. 

The thought occurred to him briefly - was Phichit doing this to protect him? Would Celestino attempt to hurt him if Phichit hadn’t taken his place? He needed to ask, he needed to be sure - but the words stuck in an awful, anxious pit in his stomach. His friend could be hurting, and he was too weak to even  _ ask _ if that was the case. 

The thought of what he heard curled around his stomach like a vice, making him want to throw up, wallow in bed all day. 

The only thing he could take comfort in was the fact that he was going to see Victor again soon - but even that presented a problem. His allowance was almost out, and it was weeks before he got the next installment. 

Normally, Yuuri would just ask Celestino for an advance, but he still needed time to process before he could even bear to speak to his caretaker again, and of course there was the question of whether Celestino would even grant him one. He had even sent a servant out to claim he was too sick to fence. 

Unfortunately, that meant he’d need to get creative with his money. Fortunately, Yuuri was feeling abnormally vindictive, and Celestino had quite a few shinies lying around that Yuuri was sure he wouldn’t miss. 

He rebuffed Phichit’s offer to tutor him in law and felt a little guilty at the hurt look on his friend’s face.  _ I’m sorry, Phichit,  _ he pleaded inwardly,  _ my brain doesn’t handle these things well. Please give me some time to calm down _ . 

It scared him, like his world had been shaken up overnight. 

Yuuri needed to get out of the house. He slipped out, hopefully without anyone noticing, hopefully without anyone noticing the ancient, priceless rings and jewels hidden under his shirt. 

He’d need to find someone off the beaten path enough that it couldn’t be traced back. That was more of a wild card, though, and he didn’t want to be cheated. Yuuri fretted about where to go, realized belatedly that this was definitely something Phichit would know, and cursed his home life for being upended at precisely the wrong moment. 

Shopkeepers noticed his dress and slunk out to seduce him in to buy their wares. Yuuri ignored them, flitting from pawn shop to pawn shop to compare prices. He’d almost sold off his fortune at the first place, harangued by a vicious older woman, but managed to hold his own enough to flee, jewelry still in hand.

He paused beside a pole and counted the flyers attached to it to calm down, raked his eyes over homemade posters for fencing lessons, mathematics tutoring, a book club.

One in particular drew his eye - a  _ wanted _ poster for a severe looking young man. Now, that was rare, the crime even moreso - wanted on suspicion of planning to incite a slave revolt. Yuuri couldn’t help but admire the man, wondering why he couldn’t be so brave. Saving Victor via a revolt was seeming like an easier method than the legal one. 

Eventually, though, Yuuri sold all of his wares, and left the guild district with a small fortune jingling in his pockets. Enough to buy Victor a few more times, at least, and forget that his caretaker wanted to fuck him.

Still riding the adrenaline from his rebellious streak, Yuuri spent the rest of the afternoon in the gardens, practicing his plies.

* * *

 

It was up to Victor to clean up the damage. He knew, from the moment Yuri had been dragged away, that he’d be the one sewing him back together afterward - all he could hope was that  _ sewing him back together _ wouldn’t be literal. 

He was horribly, unbearably guilty. 

Of course, the Count made sure that he was still there when Victor came to fetch Yuri hours later, to relish in how he’d pulled the wings off yet another fluttering butterfly. 

There was something stirring in Victor’s chest. The count had done this to hurt him, him alone. Men didn’t… Men didn’t do that to objects. To pieces of furniture. To toys. There was something deeply, deeply personal about the way the Count had hurt him - how he’d gotten  _ revenge _ . He hadn’t been a pawn in some struggle between the nobles, this was entirely about him. For a moment, though the Count didn’t realize it, he’d given Victor a measure of personhood . 

An awful, spiteful taste of humanity. 

Yuri was passed out on the floor, hair covering his face, a sheen of sweat all along his body. He was bleeding, but that wasn’t a surprise. Wordlessly, numbly, Victor pressed two fingers to the vein in his neck - a pulse, faint but there.

“How’d you learn to do that, slut?” the Count asked. 

Victor didn’t answer. He wasn’t the Count’s until tomorrow, and he didn’t need to dignify that with a response.

_ “Ugh, the little one’s passed out again. V, check his pulse - even if he’s dead we can get a bit more use out of him tonight and bury him in the morning.” _

Yuri gasped softly and let out a fearful whine as Victor opened him up, feeling around inside for injuries. Victor knew Yuri would hate him for checking his body right on the spot, but Victor needed to know if Yuri could stand. If the damage was so bad they’d need to stitch him back together here, or if he could be moved somewhere more private. Victor hated when they needed to bring a medic in, right there into the room. The humiliation of further prodding, touching, all under the bemused eyes of the client who’d bought him.

Tearing, but nothing unmanageable. The Count was careful - he knew through experience how much a body could take before it broke entirely. A bit of rest and Yuri would be back to it.

He’d never seen what Yakov did to slaves that couldn’t work anymore. Could it really be worse than the fate of those who still needed to, after something like  _ this _ ?

“Do you want to hear what I did to him?” the Count asked, voice curling with darkness.

“No,” Victor replied. He knew he’d pay for that soon, and pay dearly, but for the moment it was worth the bugged out shock on the Count’s face. 

  
Victor picked up Yuri and supported him as they both stumbled away. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops, posted this wrong at first! Hopefully no one saw that. 
> 
> Things continue to be particularly depressing. Content warnings for the chapter include mentions of sexual abuse of a child (in the form of a single line of dialogue, absolutely nothing explicit), torture and the psychological aftermath thereof, angst levels off the charts. Next chapter will have a bit of a break before things kick into high gear again.
> 
> Exams are coming up, so I'm going to be gone for two weeks. I know this is kind of an awful time in the fic to do that, and I promise that wasn't on purpose. Thank you all for your patience, and feel free to keep letting me know how you feel about the chapter/fic in general in the meantime. I'll actually try to respond this time around!

It was the Count’s fault for being an unbelievable cesspit of cruelty. It was Yuuri’s fault for provoking him by paying the protection fee. It was his fault for acting like he  _ needed _ a protection fee. 

After all, it had only been a few bruises. 

“This is all your fucking fault!”

Yuri was furious. Victor wasn’t surprised, and he knew Yuri was using his fury to mask an even worse hurt, but it still stung. 

“You’ll heal,” Victor assured him, running some soothing, cooling lotion into his torn hole and letting Yuri’s howls of pain wash over him. 

“I don’t  _ want  _ to heal,” Yuri snapped, “I wish I’d died there, and that the Count had killed  _ you _ right after. Slowly.”

Victor didn’t respond. Yuri had woken up, and once the screaming, wracking sobs had subsided, he’d slumped down and refused to be touched for hours. Victor didn’t know exactly what hell the Count had put him through, but from personal experience, he knew it must’ve been awful - he could see the markings, blistering and red, all over. 

It was only after much coaxing and even more drugs that he’d allowed Victor to lay him flat on his bed and clean him up. Morning light trickled in through a small, circular window well above their heads and Victor yawned.

“You won’t die,” Victor sighed. 

“I hope I get to watch whatever they’re going to do to you tomorrow.”

Victor bit back the fearful cruelty of whatever his response to that would be. He was strangely calm, the calm of a condemned man, since Yakov had brought him the grim news that the count would be returning the next day to see him. Instead, he said simply, “No you don’t.”

Yuri bit his lip angrily, realizing Victor was right. Instead, he changed directions, “I thought,” he hissed, “I thought it would be good having someone to mentor me, when I first got here. But all I see now is how working here, being a slave, how it fucks you up. You’re horrifying, Victor, how - how are you  _ calm _ about this? Why aren’t you angry about what he did to me? You know he’s gonna do worse to you. I’m picturing it now.”

The last bit he spit out with a sharp, dark-curled murmur.

_ He’s being cruel because he’s young and upset _ , Victor reminded himself. Yuri was lucky Victor was the one cleaning him up - if  _ he’d _ tried to act like this after a session, he’d be starved or beaten to oblivion, even when he was young. Especially when he was young, and he’d cry about it.

“I am upset about-” Victor began, softly, but Yuri cut him off.

“Why did I have to take this? I’m sure it barely bothers you anymore. Fuck, you probably even enjoy it, after so long!”

Cold, cold fear pooled in Victor’s stomach and his fingers faltered, slightly, tripping over a raised red mark on Yuri’s back.  _ He’s poking at your nerves _ , Victor grit his teeth,  _ don’t lose your temper with a fifteen year old, don’t walk into an appointment with the Count feeling worse than you need to _ .

“I’m never gonna be like you,” Yuri spat, “I’m not pathetic, pining, ready to suck the dick of some dumb fucking noble because he fed you chocolates  _ once _ , when it’s just because he wants to fuck you like  _ all the others _ -”

“Yuri, please-”

“Oh my god,  _ look at you _ . You’re a blank fucking slate. They like you because they can do whatever they want and after you spring right back to how you were before they were hurting you, like it never happened. Like mud. Like -  _ fuck _ , are you even human?”

Too much. Too far. Victor swallowed down his hurt in anger and shouted, “ _ I didn’t ask for this _ .”

The bottle of medicine slipped from his hands and clattering with a too-loud crash onto the floor. Precious, precious painkiller dripped out of it’s open mouth, but Victor was shaking too hard to care. “I didn’t… God, do you even know how it feels, finding the one man who doesn’t treat me like  _ complete shit _ and having him ripped away because I’m an  _ object _ who can’t help himself?” 

Yuri didn’t respond, but he buried his head in his arms angrily. 

“Thinking, for a few precious moments, that I’m safe from some sadistic freak, and being forced to realize that there’s nothing  _ anyone _ can do to keep him from hurting me? I can’t stop him, Yuuri can’t stop him,  _ no one can stop him _ , and we have to just live with it because we’re  _ slaves _ .” 

“ _ Don’t call me that _ ,” Yuri all but screamed, voice choking off into a sob as he aggravated his injuries, “I’m not, I didn’t want this, I didn’t ask for my mom to sell me off to pay some  _ stupid debts _ .”

Victor grabbed Yuri’s wrist, harshly. “When I was _a child_ , younger than you,  a group of soldiers stopped me on my way home. They took turns with me, left me for dead by the side of the road, and there was still no court in the country that would have convicted them because of the position I was born into. Do you think I  _ wanted _ this?” 

“Shut up, shut  _ up _ -”

“Clean yourself up,” Victor shouted, stalking out of the room. His mind was blurring with red, and he needed to calm down before he said anything crueller than he already had. 

There was no sound, no rustle of movement from Yuri, still on the bed in Victor’s room. Victor sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands. That was  _ exactly _ what he had been afraid of - Yuri was young, he was scared, he didn’t want to know how helpless he truly was with his free status revoked by a cruel twist of fate. 

Victor wondered if he really was doing Yuri a favor by letting him be angry about his position. In his twenty seven years, Victor had seen a dozen slave-born boys shot or subdued with whips and torture to prevent them from truly being angry - it was just easier not to feel it, or anything at all.

And yet, here he was,  _ feeling _ . Remembering how he’d relied on Yuuri to protect him, remembering how his barest attempt at self-advocacy had hurt Yuri, was going to hurt him. He’d dared to hope, and now Yuri was bleeding into his bed and Victor was waiting for a punishment he couldn’t even imagine. 

He should apologize. He should go back in, run a soothing hand through Yuri’s hair, and say he’d always be there for him - even if it was a lie, that was a horrible way to leave a hurt  _ child _ . It was a way he’d been left too many times, back when he was young. 

The thought opened deeply shuttered windows in his mind, left him shaking and unable to move on the floor as he remembered himself at Yuri’s age. 

Yuuri’s warm, compassionate eyes flickered in front of him, and Victor let himself  _ hurt _ . 

* * *

“Yuuri, we need to talk.” Phichit voice was low, frantic. “Please.”

“‘M busy,” Yuuri mumbled, staring at his feet instead of Phichit’s warm face. _Ask him,_ his mind was screaming, _Make sure he’s okay, why are you so bad at this?_

How was he supposed to ask, though? _Hey, Phichit, I want to know if my not-really uncle is having sex with you because otherwise he’d go after me. There’s literally nothing I can do about it, and probably no way I can help you, and the fact that he could raise me and still want to fuck me makes me want to vomit, but-_

“A bunch of Celestino’s things have gone missing. He’s going to notice, please - tell me if you had something to do with it.”

“I’m not a thief,” Yuuri said, mechanically, hoping Phichit didn’t notice the twitch in his jaw as he said it, somehow knowing Phichit absolutely had. What would Celestino do if he found out?

“He’s going to notice they’re gone, please, if it was you just tell me and I’ll fix it-”

“I didn’t do it,” Yuuri spluttered out, voice coming out harsher than he’d meant to. Phichit winced and stepped back, hurt clear in his shining black eyes, and guilt churned in Yuuri’s gut. He wished he could calm down, act like everything was normal for Phichit’s sake - but this wasn’t _normal_ and he didn’t know how to handle it.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, voice cracking, “You’ve been so cruel the past two days, and I don’t know why.”

Yuuri winced, guilty, and he couldn’t meet Phichit’s gaze. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, Phichit - I… Let’s just forget about it.”

Phichit’s eyes flashed with anger. “It’s not _nothing_ ,” he shouted, “Yuuri, you’ve been acting like a complete jackass. I’m your _friend_.”

Yuuri couldn’t keep up the act. It had been a pitiful attempt, maybe a day and a half of avoiding in the most obvious way, and he knew Phichit deserved better. He bit his lip and replied, “I overheard you and Celestino the other night. I head you say, I heard my name…”

He couldn’t finish.

Phichit’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he simply said.

“It scared me,” Yuuri shook his head. “I didn’t think… Phichit, why are you doing this? Do you think he’d try to hurt me if you didn’t?”

“No,” Phichit gasped, “gods, no, I don’t… He’s never indicated…”

Yuuri made a frustrated noise, “And you swore he wasn’t coercing you. Then _why_?”

Phichit didn’t answer, a deep flush on his cheeks.

Yuuri’s heart sank. “So… So, he is c-coercing-”

“ _No_ ,” Phichit assured him, firm. “Yes, he’s mostly doing this with me because he wants you, but when I found out about that, _I_ approached _him_. Being with him has some fantastic benefits, Yuuri, so it’s fine.”

“Benefits?” Yuuri asked, nervous. “What do you mean…?

Phichit looked like he’d let spill a dark secret. He bit his lip and turned his head away, not meeting Yuuri’s gaze. “Nevermind,” he murmured, “Don’t worry about this, okay?”

“Fine,” Yuuri said, an edge in his voice, “Keep your secrets. I just… I know he’s not my real uncle, but it still freaks me out. I don’t like it. I can’t… I still need some time to process.”

Phichit nodded, sadly, and he kissed Yuuri on the cheek. It was warm, and soft, and Yuuri wished the smile he gave him reached his eyes.

“I guess I’ll go, then,” Phichit sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispered, “I’ll… Hopefully we can be back to normal soon.”

Phichit nodded and hid a pained look as he left. Yuuri sighed and wondered what Victor would think about all of this.

* * *

 

Victor _screamed_.

He was on fire, flames licking up from his thigh to his neck, wrapping around his beating heart and squeezing it like a vice. Then, suddenly, the hot burning was gone, and Victor stared down at his unmarred flesh in awful, aching horror.

Unmarred, save for a bright red blister on his inner thigh, a tiny crescent, like a child had dug their nails into his flesh.

Victor hadn’t bothered to make himself pretty, a small act of defiance, and he was glad for that because he would have cried the makeup clean off by now. He’d wandered over to the Count’s private room, on edge and uncomfortable, and done a quick survey to see what fresh hell he was in store for.

There were a few thin, white rods, barely two fingers wide. It hadn’t seemed like much, but then the Count had pressed a button, and Victor had heard a crackle of _something_ , and suddenly his whole body was convulsing in agony.

It was like being lit on fire from the inside out. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before, he didn’t even know what was happening, just that it _hurt_.

_“Do you know what electricity is, Ice Prince?” The Count cackled, “No, you’re too stupid to know such a thing even exists. It’s magic, slave, think of it like that.”_

Simple white rods, sizzling at the click of a button, pressed to him and igniting his flesh in invisible flames. His voice was hoards, his breath ragged, and he didn’t even remember screaming.

 _“Tell me, tell me where your spark of disobedience came from. You’re so good, I can do whatever I want to you because I know I won’t have to worry about you mouthing me off. God, I love you, I love how your body_ breaks _around me-”_

Someone, something, was inside him, thick and aching. Victor gasped for breath, focused on the rattling of his chains as his hands shook involuntarily. Tears beaded at the corners of his eyes as every inch of his body was pulled taut, as if on a string. Beatings, abuse, he’d handled in stride, but this, _this-_

_“Tell me who made you like this, who dared try taking you away from me. You’re a model slave, Victor, you really are - good, obedient, beautiful. You were made for this life. Don’t forget your place.”_

Victor couldn’t have talked even if he wanted to answer. Nothing came out but a garbled mess in a language he barely even spoke anymore, and he _ached_ at the high, cruel laughter when the Count heard his mother tongue. He’d butchered the words, brutally, whether from pain or from disuse he couldn’t tell.

It seemed to go on for days, years. His stomach churned, and he barely registered throwing up down his front, bile stinging his sore throat. They cleaned him, complaining about the smell, poured water from a bucket to drain away the tears and sweat. The voices blended into the buzz of the machine pressed to him, until one thing cut across the haze like a knife.

_“When I buy you,” the Count said, “I’m going to test all of my toys on you, just like this.”_

Victor sobbed. He’d rather die, he was going to die. Then, the beast was sliding inside him, a strange black layer over his body to protect against the force of the rods, and suddenly he was on fire again, convulsing even as the beast thrust forward, again and again.

 _Yuuri_ , he thought, _please, please, help me. I can’t take much more of this. I only want you, only you, and if I’m told to go with this monster, I’ll-_

_I’ll kill myself._

Victor’s red-rimmed, tearstained eyes flew open. He’d had the thought before, but suddenly, it pressed against him, sharper than the pain of the beast’s thrusts.

He’d go with Yuuri, or he’d die. That was that.

* * *

 

“Fucking _gross_ , the room smells like vomit. What… What’s wrong with him?”

Yuri’s voice floated to him from where he was hiding within his own mind. It was over, he registered faintly, but he couldn’t find his way back to true consciousness. He was deep within a labyrinth, and this time he’d forgotten to mark the path out.

“He won’t answer me. Victor, _Victor_ , your eyes are open, come on.”

His body spasmed of its own accord, as it had a few times since the session had ended. Yuri let out a high pitched, fearful sound, and Victor wanted to assure him everything was fine, but he couldn’t find his voice.

“Fuck, I can’t lift him up. No! No, no, I don’t need your help. Don’t touch him - _ouch!”_

Victor found his way back some time later, when he was lying underneath a soft blanket in his room. Yuri was kneeling above him, terrified.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he gasped, as Victor shifted to look at him dumbly, “You’re back - I thought you were dead, your eyes were open but you weren’t speaking, or answering, or-” he swallowed down a sob. “What did he _do_ to you?”

A leftover shock spasmed through him, gripping his heart in a fearful vice, and Victor hunched over as the bile rose in his throat.

There was a bucket below him, and Victor gripped it until his knuckles turned white, heaving until his stomach was empty and only acidic saliva spilled out of his mouth.

Suddenly, he was done, and the bucket was gone. Victor slumped back down.

“It’s dinnertime, do you want me to bring it up?”

Victor shook his head, everything coming to him through a fog.

“Do you want me to bring you some medicine?”

Victor thought he’d shaken his head, but when Yuri’s voice became high pitched, frenzied, terrified, he realized he was gone again.

He didn’t know where his body was, but is mind was in a forest, the wind whistling through the trees and whispering to him.

_In front of him, he saw a child. A teenager - maybe sixteen. His hair was a long, greasy mess of silver, his limbs stick-thin from starvation. He kneeled on the floor, naked and bloody, and Victor reached out to him only to have the child flinch away._

_It made sense, he thought, sadly - someone had hurt the poor creature. The boy looked up at him with aching blue eyes, and suddenly he was in a dockside whorehouse, in a pitiful room with a rag for a blanket and a hardwood floor to serve as a bed._

_The boy wrapped his skinny arms around himself, and suddenly Victor remembered this scene - he’d been sold by his former master barely a few weeks ago, and he was hurting, his childhood love apparently dead and his body in agony from the night’s abuse. He cried, wracking sobs that shook his skinny frame, and Victor’s voice stuck in his throat as he attempted to comfort him._

_He was alone. Why was he alone? Couldn’t anyone see that he was in pain?_

_Victor saw with horrific clarity how his younger self had wept the entire night, how no one had come to comfort him, how he’d clutched the filthy blanket to himself for some semblance of warmth and gentle touch. Why, why had no one come for him? Why had he been forced to suffer so much, so alone?_

Victor gasped awake. His body convulsed, nausea building in his throat.

There wasn’t a bucket in front of him this time, and the aching, empty pit of his stomach spewed up something stinging and vile onto the floor by his bed.

Something was calling him away. Victor slumped back onto the pillows and got lost again.

* * *

 

_“My Yuuri, my Yuuri-”_

_“Stop it, Vitya, don’t talk like that.”_

_The warmth was gone, Yuuri pulling away from his arms. Hurt flashed in his bright blue eyes, and he bit his lip to stop from pouting._

_“What’s wrong?” he asked, nervous._

_“You keep trying to be like master, but you’re not.”_

_A sudden spark of anger. “Do you want me to act like a slave around you? I thought you’d be different.”_

_“I don’t,” Yuuri pleaded, eyes shining with tears that tugged awful, pained pressure in Victor’s heart. “I don’t want either of those things, I just want you to be you.”_

_“Yuuri,” Victor snapped, rolling his eyes brattily, “I’m not_ anything. _”_

* * *

 

Time was stagnant, or it flowed too fast. Victor measured its passage by Yuri’s voice in his ear.

It was night, the night after.

“Yakov says I need to go back to work, can you believe it? I… Ugh, I don’t _want_ to. If only that mattered, right Victor?”

“Victor, are you ignoring me? Fine, I won’t come visit after my shift tonight, see how you like being ignored.”

“You asshole, just because you had it worse, you’re ignoring me-”

The clink of a plate, probably beside him, but Victor wasn’t sure. Morning, then.

“Yakov says you need to work tonight. He can’t keep making excuses for you. Maybe if what the Count does loses him enough clients he’ll finally make him fuck off, right?”

“You’re still ignoring me? Gods, it looks like you can’t even _hear_ me. Victor, say something!”

Each time Victor got a little closer to the edge of the maze. The second time Yuri came to see him, he could see the flash of blonde hair as he settled in in front of him. Had it been a few minutes or a few hours? Was it midday?

“Still haven’t eaten anything? Do I need to spoon feed you?”

“You know, I think some part of me thought I could get out of this. I - I could barely make it through last night’s shift. It didn’t even hurt that bad, but the moment the first client put his hands on me, I almost had a fucking panic attack. I asked them to take me off duty, but they said no. I could barely sleep afterwards.”

“Are you not replying because you’re not surprised? Well, _I_ was surprised, I-”

His voice cut off into a sob, and Victor felt a fuzzy kind of hurt.

Then, it was midafternoon.

“Chris said to bring you lunch. I still have to work too, which sucks. You know, my mom never told me how long I’d need to work to settle my debts. I hope it’s not too much longer, I don’t know…”

“It’s getting harder. C’mon, you can’t still be mad. You can’t still be sick. Should I get them to call a doctor?”

“Victor?”

Yuri’s hair was in a braid, his eyes were messy where tears had smudged his makeup, and he sunk to his knees in front of Victor. The movement was good. Victor focused on it and found that he knew what room he was in. Knew that it was night time, a bit before their shifts were set to start. What he _didn’t_ know was how he would manage to move, to get himself ready.

“I can’t go out there, Victor, I can’t - last night was bad, but just thinking about tonight makes me nauseous. I _can’t_ do this, I’m going to be sick, there’s no way any of the men are going to be satisfied with me, then they’re just gonna hurt me worse.”

“Victor, please, answer me.”

Yuri’s voice was a twinkling silver bell, trembling on the edge of tears. Victor latched onto it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I said those things to you, I didn’t mean them, I’m so sorry, please stop being angry with me, please say something, I can’t do this without you, I can’t - oh gods, help me, Victor, I can’t breathe-”

Yuri was having a full blown panic attack, and Victor forced his leaden limbs to move. He wasn’t quite back, but it was better than before. It was like swimming, like wading through fog, but he managed to find a seated position and reached out to caress Yuri’s tearstained cheek, staring at it with unfocused vision.

“Tell me three names,” a soft voice whispered in his ear, and Victor repeated the words out loud.

“Victor, Beka, Nicolai.”

“Tell me three things you see.” The voice telling him what to say was soft, sweet, feminine.

“You. Your mirror. The - the pillow.”

“Tell me three things you ate today.”

“Porridge. Bread. Soup.”

Victor nodded, head very heavy, and he tried to focus on Yuri’s face only to find it swirling before him. “Can you breathe again?”

“Yes.”

Yuri let out a loud gasp and slumped into Victor’s outstretched arms, sobbing. Victor frowned. When had he stretched out his arms?

“I’m so sorry I said those things. I’ll never do it again, I’ll never talk again,” Yuri sobbed, “It’s been awful, you not talking to me.”

Victor’s thoughts swam through the soup in his brain and finally, after far too long, made it to his tongue.

“I wasn’t mad,” he explained, “Or, well, I was mad for a while, but I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“Why wouldn’t you respond to me, then?”

Victor frowned, strands of Yuri’s hair tickling his nose, wetness from Yuri’s tears at the crook of his neck.

“Sometimes, I go away,” he explained, “after something really bad. I used to do it when I was a kid, then once I got brought over to the city, it happened less and less. This was the first time in a really, really long time.”

“Holy hell, Victor,” Yuri breathed, “That’s… That’s terrifying.”

“I think I got it from my mother,” Victor murmured, half to himself, and felt a faint hint of surprise that he was being driven to talk about his mother, “They’d hurt her, and then she’d do this. This same thing.”

Yuri looked up at him for a moment, questioning. Victor had never spoken about his family before - he hated doing so. Hated the memories. He shook his head and wondered how to change the subject, lower lip trembling.

Yuri still looked at him like he was some kind of salvation, even after everything he’d seen. “I wish I could protect you,” Victor murmured, “If someone like the Count wants you, there’s nothing I can say or do. You need to understand that before this life kills you.”

Yuri’s eyes widened and he quickly ducked his head, shoulders trembling into sobs. Victor hoped he hadn’t said that wrong, hoped Yuri wouldn’t take his words and lose all hope. Victor, either by the Count’s hands or Yuuri’s, wouldn’t be here forever - that much was becoming an inevitability.

What would Yuri do then? If the Count took him away, Yuri would be alone. If Yuuri took him away, the Count might focus in on Yuri to make up for the loss.

There was no way to win. Someone was always going to hurt.

“Don’t say that,” Yuri pleaded, and Victor knew he wasn’t really pleading with him. “I can’t… Without you, I’ll die. I can’t do this.”

“You’d be surprised what you can live through,” Victor murmured, dully, not exactly to Yuri.

The room was coming back, Yuri’s face less fuzzy. Victor could clearly see the mascara tracks down his cheeks, the smear of his lipstick, the bloodshot of his eyes. He kissed Yuri’s forehead and held him a little bit longer while he calmed down. His thin body was warm, delicate, wrapped in Victor’s trembling arms.

“Yakov said I need to work, hm?” Victor sighed, rubbing his eyes, trying to change the subject. “When was the last time I showered? Ate? How long has it been?”

“About two days? You haven’t eaten since before the Count, but I washed you after. Then again after you threw up in your room.”

Victor frowned. He didn’t remember that. As if on cue, his stomach grumbled, and a greasy strand of hair fell in front of his face. “I guess I should do both, then.”

Yuri nodded. “Let me help you,” he said, a bit too eager. Still trying to make up for what he’d said.

 _You were hurting_ , Victor wanted to assure him, _You were hurting. You’ll never stop hurting. I forgive you._ Instead, because his tongue was heavy and solid in his mouth, he pressed another kiss to Yuri’s forehead and tucked in a stray strand of hair.

Victor leaned on Yuri, legs still shaking, and limped through the hallway towards the kitchen. People were staring at him, staff and slaves alike.

“You freaked everyone out,” Yuri said, as if Victor needed an explanation. “Not just after. We could all hear your screaming from rooms over. It went on for hours.”

Victor didn’t respond.

“Are you… Are you going to tell fake Yuri?”

Victor almost stumbled. He hadn’t even remembered Yuuri’s visit, and now it was happening tomorrow. It didn’t cheer him up as it had done in the past - he was still too tired.

“I guess have to,” Victor sighed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re sweet,” Victor said, kissing him on the forehead. Then, he sighed, and asked dully, “Have you spoken to Yakov about buying me, since last time?”
> 
> Yuuri’s eyes widened and a rush of guilt coursed through him. He’d been so preoccupied with seeing Victor again that the business end of it got lost. He bit his lip and winced, noticing the tired slump of Victor’s shoulders at his lack of response.
> 
> Victor opened his mouth, and Yuuri prepared for Victor to yell at him. Instead, his voice was calm, scarily so as he said, “Please stop paying the protection fee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than I meant it to be, sorry you guys! I should've known better to think I'd have time to post at the end of the semester, what with all the end of year nonsense. This chapter is a bit of a break (at least the first part is) before some more hardcore angst next time.
> 
> Because I'm getting some worry from people (understandably lol) about the angst levels of the fic, I do want to assure you that a happy ending with Victor and Yuuri together is in the works. I posted this in a comment to someone a bit ago, but basically, things have to get a bit worse (though not quite as violently as last chapter, for the most part), then the fic changes trajectory, plot-wise, then things start looking up. 
> 
> If you have concerns feel free to comment!

There was that wanted poster again. Yuuri noticed it placed strategically in well-lit locales of the red light district - most notably in front of a square he knew housed a sizeable slave market. He wondered what the logic in that was. Would it instill the thought of rebellion in the hearts of the slaves sold here, or was the crude, cruel punishment outlined on it enough to keep them cowed? 

Mila let him into the Ice Castle, giving him as close to a genuine smile as she was capable of. 

“Victor’s feeling a little under the weather,” she warned him.

“I don’t mind,” Yuuri responded, too quickly. “Unless, I mean, should I come back tomorrow? I don’t need a refund or anything…” 

Mila shook her head. “Yakov will have my head for refusing your money, but I really think you should see him. He might go catatonic again if you don’t.”

Yuuri wondered what she meant by that, but then Yuri was leading him along a narrow path, and it slipped from his mind. Yuri looked pretty under the weather as well. Yuuri considered asking him about it, but an icy glance, as though he’d read his mind, stayed his tongue. 

How much would Yuri cost? Could he buy them both?

What did it truly help if he only got Victor out, other than his own selfish desires?

He all but stumbled into the private room and his face lit up at an exhausted looking Victor lying on the bed before him.

Victor didn’t leap up like he had the last time, but he opened his arms for him, and Yuuri fell into them, relishing in the steady heartbeat echoing in Victor’s chest. 

“How are you?” Yuuri fretted, pressing the back of his hand to Victor’s warm forehead. “Mila said you weren’t feeling well.”

Victor smiled, wearily. “Mila’s sweet. I’m fine, though, just tired.” 

“We don’t have to do anything,” Yuuri assured him, “I’m happy to just lie here.” 

“ _ You’re _ sweet,” Victor said, kissing him on the forehead. Then, he sighed, and asked dully, “Have you spoken to Yakov about buying me, since last time?” 

Yuuri’s eyes widened and a rush of guilt coursed through him. He’d been so preoccupied with seeing Victor again that the business end of it got lost. He bit his lip and winced, noticing the tired slump of Victor’s shoulders at his lack of response. 

Victor opened his mouth, and Yuuri prepared for Victor to yell at him. Instead, his voice was calm, scarily so as he said, “Please stop paying the protection fee.”

“What?” Yuuri asked. It was such a shocking response, and he stared into Victor’s tired blue eyes and began to wonder what had happened. Luckily, Victor didn’t make him wait long.

“The Count, this place’s patron, decided to take little Yuri for his appointments in my place,” he said, voice monotone. “It’s easier this way - you paying this provoked him, and maybe if you stop, it’ll go back to normal.” 

“The way I saw you the first time was normal?” Yuuri asked, pointed. 

Victor closed his eyes. “You don’t understand the choices I have to make.”

Yuuri leaned over him, thumb caressing his soft cheek, “Then help me understand,” he pleaded.

“You  _ can’t _ ,” Victor snapped. Yuuri saw the reflexive spasm of fear from talking with that tone to a free man, a lord nonetheless, and his heart ached. He sighed, then, and the same tired resignation settled into his body position. “Before this, he’d come by every once in a while, and yes, it was awful - but it wasn’t often. And it wasn’t  _ this _ . Yuri’s barely older than a child, and that - that  _ thing _ he put in me...” 

Victor shuddered and his hands flew up to his mouth. Yuuri kissed his forehead, whispering,  _ shh, shh Vitya, you’re safe with me _ .

“I paid the fee,” Yuuri snarled, “I’ll have his head in court for this, I paid to stop you from being hurt-”

“You paid for me not to be marked,” Victor explained, voice catching, “And this thing didn’t mark me.”

“Victor,” Yuuri asked, cautious, “What thing?” 

Victor winced. “I think they called it a Lightning Rod? It was long, and white, and it  _ burned _ .” 

Yuuri let out a gasp of rage. “ _ What _ ?” He spat out, “What the  _ fuck _ \- that’s, gods, that’s awful, it’s forbidden by law to use it on people, it’s…” 

Victor’s eyes slid open, glazed over, and Yuuri’s dip into law beat at him like a drum. Of course, the law didn’t apply to Victor. Yuuri’s eyes filled with angry tears, and he leaned against Victor’s chest so Victor couldn’t see how upset he was. 

“He wants to buy me,” Victor said, softly. 

Yuuri looked up at him, tears be damned, eyes wide and horrified. “No,” he whispered. 

“Yuuri,” Victor pleaded, “You need to hurry - why  _ didn’t _ Yakov just give me to you on the first day?” 

“Another bidder,” Yuuri shook his head, wiping at his eyes. “That must be him.” 

Victor winced. “It must be. God, Yuuri, I can’t - I  _ can’t _ .” His voice broke, and Yuuri’s heart shattered along with it. 

“I’ll talk to Yakov right after this,” Yuuri murmured, “Make him reconsider the Count. I won’t let him get you. I’ll steal you away if I have to.”

A whole-body shudder forced Yuuri to pull back from his position, nestled in Victor’s arms. He cupped Victor’s face in his hands and pressed a soothing kiss to his forehead at the ashen gray tint his face had taken on.

“Victor,” Yuuri asked tentatively, stroking Victor’s cheek in concern, “Victor, did I say something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Victor assured him, eyes staring somewhere very far away. “Nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, that much was clear. Yuuri frowned, not sure how to ask without dredging up some no-doubt awful memory from long ago. It hurt, every happy memory from their childhood tainted by the way Victor’s master had treated him, the knowledge that he’d done nothing but suffer since. In some ways, it was a miracle that he was still alive. 

If Yuuri was being optimistic, which he rarely was, the fact that they’d been brought back together could be a sign that their happy ending was meant to be. Disease, slavery, and death hadn’t torn them apart - and Yuuri would be damned if he let anything less powerful even make an attempt.

Victor was quiet. After what he’d been through, it was no wonder he had no energy to flirt and joke like usual, thought Yuuri saw the pain in his eyes at his own exhaustion. He frowned, not quite sure what to do - when a memory knocked at the edges of his mind, and he smiled sadly as he let it in.

He was twenty, still reeling from the death of Minako, the last remaining member of his family. Most days, getting out of bed was too much to ask, and long, lonely days stretched into long, lonely nights. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything but curl up in his bed and mourn - 

And without fail, every night, Phichit would crawl onto the bed beside him, tuck the blanket in around him, and tell him sweet stories that he’d picked up from the servants, or gossip he’d overheard by pressing his ear to the crack in Celestino’s office door. 

Yuuri didn’t have to say anything, but Phichit’s presence helped. Just him  _ being  _ there helped, letting Yuuri know he wasn’t alone. 

With a deep breath, Yuuri extracted himself from Victor’s warmth, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze at the low noise of protest and pout on Victor’s lips. He picked up the thin blanket, clearly just for show, and wrapped it around Victor’s trembling body. He fluffed up the pillow and readjusted it under Victor’s head, then he curled up beside Victor, on top of the blanket.

Victor stared up at him, confused, before barking out a small laugh. “Yuuri, what are you doing? Are you putting me to bed?” 

“Just trying to make you comfortable,” Yuuri assured him, running his fingers through Victor’s long hair, stopping briefly to scratch at his scalp.

Victor closed his eyes, lips parted in bliss as Yuuri played with his hair. Yuuri quickly glanced around to make sure everything was just-so, took a moment to imagine this scene played out in a different context - him, massaging Victor’s scalp, Victor freed and the Count and every man who’d ever hurt him a far-distant memory. Or dead. That could work, too.

“Feels good,” Victor mumbled sleepily, peeking an eye open to shoot a coy look in Yuuri’s direction, “I’d rather you put me to bed another way, though.”

Yuuri smiled, glad to hear Victor joking again, even if that one made him wince a little bit. Victor yawned and shifted around, warm contentment relaxing the muscles of his face.

Good, Yuuri thought, now that he’s feeling better, now I can…

“Oh, hey,” Yuuri stuttered, pretending like he had just remembered the gold weight in his pocket and hadn’t been thinking of the best time to bring them up, “I, uh, I got you something. Well, I didn’t buy it, but…” 

He swallowed and pulled out two shimmering, gold rings. Victor’s face lit up like the full moon outside, luminous and unearthly. Yuuri took his hand, cheeks bright red, and slid the gold ring onto his finger, trembling and unsure. 

“It’s not chocolate, but I wanted… They were my parents’ rings,” Yuuri explained, “And they’re all I have left of them. I know you’re worried, and I was an idiot who got you and Yuri hurt, but I need you to know I’m serious about this.”

Victor swallowed, staring at the ring, the glint of gold lighting up his whole face. 

Yuuri bit his lip, starting to stutter at Victor’s lack of response. “They, I mean… I don’t know if you think this is too impulsive, but Vitya, I’m not going to lose you again.”

“It’s almost like a marriage proposal,” Victor murmured, half to himself. His eyes flitted up and he reached out to take the second ring from Yuuri and to hold Yuuri’s hand.

Yuuri’s eyes shone as Victor slid the ring onto his finger. Somehow, that made the guilt all the more painful - Victor’s whole-hearted trust in him, the love overflowing in his blue eyes. He kissed the shining gold band, let out a sob, and collapsed onto Victor’s chest in tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out, “I should’ve worked harder to buy you. Been stronger. Not let this happen to you, or Yuri.” 

There was a long, slow silence where Victor held him and rubbed soothing circles into his back. When Yuuri looked up to meet his gaze, his expression was unreadable, but the genuine affection in his eyes was impossible to miss.

“Apologies are good,” Victor said in a voice that was a little too light-hearted, poking him on the nose, “Getting me out is better.”

Yuuri smiled up at him despite, watery and cracking, resolve burning in his eyes. Even if Victor had hated him for failing to keep him safe, Yuuri would still fight to free him. Victor didn’t hate him, though, Victor loved him - and once they were out, Yuuri would repay that love in spades. 

“You know,” Victor continued, “You’re the only person who lets me talk to him like this. Anyone else and I’d get slapped. Worse. I’d have my tongue cut out.” 

“I like your sass,” Yuuri said, curling up under Victor’s chin. “You used to call me piggy all the time, make fun of my belly.”

“I thought your belly was cute,” Victor replied, affronted. “What was that dish you made for me that you loved so much?”

Yuuri winced. “Katsudon. I’ll make it for you again - this time, I’ll try not to burn everything.”

Victor kissed the top of Yuuri’s head. “I’m counting on it,” he whispered, voice tight. 

“Victor?”

“Hm?”

“I’m glad,” Yuuri said, voice cracking pathetically again, “I’m glad you can talk to me like you do. I’m glad you know I won’t hurt you.”

“I feel like a different person around you,” Victor murmured, “Or rather, I feel like me. The me that could’ve existed if I hadn’t been given this life. You let me be myself.”

“I wouldn’t want anything different,” Yuuri whispered.

Victor smiled, then, suddenly, there was a dark flash in his eye. “Yuuri, I, I want you to know…” In an instant, the dark flash was gone, and Victor was shaking his head. “I want to tell you a story, like the ones you loved so much when you were a kid. My - my mother used to tell me this one.” 

The sudden shift in tone was jarring, as was the mention of Victor’s family, a subject he was incredibly tight-lipped on. Yuuri’s eyes widened and for a moment he wanted to ask Victor what he had wanted to say originally - but the icy flash in Yuri’s eyes and Victor snapping  _ you can’t understand  _ stopped him. He nodded, trying not to focus on the far away look in Victor’s eyes. He kissed the gold ring on Victor’s finger and settled into his arms. 

“One harvest festival, a bright yellow moon hung like a lantern in the sky. A little boy, staring outside his window, noticed how it bathed his room in golden light…”

* * *

 

Victor had dozed off at the end of their session, no doubt exhausted from the past few days. Yuuri had made sure to ask if that was alright first, though - he’d quickly learned that just because he did something nice for Victor didn’t mean his more powerful patrons would like it. 

Victor’s face was peaceful in his sleep, and for a while, Yuuri had just sat there watching the slow expansion of his chest, the pink of his parted lips. His hand peeked out from above the blanket, golden ring glowing there. 

That was another thing - Yuuri asked if that was an okay gift, or if it would get him in trouble. Victor had said he didn’t think so, but he’d sworn to keep it hidden either way. No one would take the ring from him. 

Yuri peeked in after a bit, and Yuuri didn’t miss the deep purple circles under his eyes, the split lip that he hadn’t had before. His heart ached. 

“Time’s up,” he murmured, without his usual bite. Then, he noticed Victor, passed out on the bed, and his eyes widened in horror, voice shaking as he asked, “What did you do to him?”

Yuuri put his hands up placatingly, startled by how intensely  _ pained _ Yuri looked. “He’s just sleeping. That’s it - he looked tired, so I thought…” He trailed off.

Yuri exhaled deeply, relief evident in his face. “Thank fuck. He’d probably throw himself off the roof if you hurt him too.” 

Yuuri frowned. It felt, strangely, like he was running out of time and coming up short either way. From the moment he’d known Victor was alive, he should’ve been immediately called to action, to save him from a life that was clearly taking a terrible toll. 

What should he have done differently? Should he have fought Yakov harder during that first meeting? 

Yuri stared at him, eyes bright green and searching. Yuuri noted for the first time that there was an unspoken agreement, an understanding between him and Victor - Yuuri getting Victor out meant nothing for him. In fact, it took away a key source of support from his life.

And Yuri was so  _ young _ . Young and beautiful, like Victor was when Yuuri had first met him. Yuuri found he couldn’t help but stare at the bits of youthful fullness that still clung to his cheeks, reminisce on the way his voice still cracked sometimes when he spoke. He apparently only had to work to repay a debt, but Yuuri had heard the rumors - collection agencies tacking on interest upon interest to keep the victim a slave. 

The thought slowly crept in, of Yuri growing older, reaching Victor’s age, and Yuuri found he couldn’t stomach it. 

“What are you fucking staring at,” Yuri snapped, fiddling with his hair self-consciously. 

Yuuri shook his head. It wouldn’t do any good to get trapped in that thought spiral - so he said, quickly, “I need to talk to Yakov.”

He sat outside Yakov’s office, fidgeting, wondering if it would come across as more lordly or just childish if he knocked on the door and demanded to be let in. Weren’t lords supposed to demand what they wanted and never back down? Throw money at things without a care in the world?

The door opened and Yuuri stared up at the lord making his way out of Yakov’s office. He thought he’d seen him somewhere before - a work function Celestino had hosted? - but the lord stalked past with only a brief glance at him.

Yuuri burst into Yakov’s office and demanded, “I need to buy Victor. Now.”

Yakov blinked, apparently used to such outbursts. “I told you,” he said, “There’s another bidder-”

“You can’t seriously be thinking of letting the Count buy Victor,” Yuuri snapped. His heart hammered in his chest.

There was a pause. Yakov narrowed his eyes, and for a moment Yuuri feared he’d said something that would bring Victor harm. That seemed to be all he was good at. 

“What makes you think that the Count is the other bidder?” Yakov said, voice sharp.

_ Quick, quick, think of something. _ “Uh,” Yuuri mumbled, stalling, “He, uh, was bragging about it. In court the other day.” 

Yakov’s face was unreadable, but Yuuri took a deep breath and powered on, “How much money do I need to throw at you for you to let me have Victor?”

“It’s not a question of pure money,” Yakov explained, face souring when Yuuri snorted, “If it were, the Count would have had him ages ago. He pays a fortune to this establishment.”

Yakov seemed to smirk at the horrified expression on Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri knew that despite his riches, he’d lost the upper hand. He glowered, somehow also aware that Yakov could read his hesitation, could see past the fancy clothes to his own humble beginnings.

“Losing Victor means possible losing that patronage,” Yakov continued, “whether I give him to the Count or to someone else.” 

“So, him being hurt means nothing to you so long as you can keep your whorehouse?” Yuuri snapped, unable to stop himself. 

Yakov didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he looked strangely sad, sympathetic. “My workers-”

“Slaves,” Yuuri sniffed, petulantly. 

Yakov glowered, his careful veneer of sympathy slipping. “My profits here mean I can give my workers better healthcare than most free men. They sleep on beds, they work set hours, unless a client wants to pay exorbitantly extra,” he gave Yuuri a pointed look. Then, he growled, “Do you know what Victor was like when he first came here?” 

Yuuri’s eyes widened. He knew that since Victor had never told him, it was something he never wanted Yuuri to know, he knew Yakov was only playing on his soft heart to prevent him from giving Victor a truly better life - and yet, and  _ yet _ …

He shook his head. 

“You could see his ribs, he was so thin. He was so black and blue the dockside place started saying that was just what barbarian skin looked like. Victor was their special attraction, since he was so pretty and so foreign, so they worked him until he couldn’t move and then sold him for pennies, lying there on the floor-”

He’d been stupid to agree to this. He knew Victor’s life was awful, he didn’t need confirmation from the man who sold him out-

“Wait,” Yuuri cried out, panicked, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes, “Wait,  _ stop _ -”

“People have strange ideas about barbarians,” Yakov continued, merciless, “That they can take more pain, that they’re too stupid to want anything but food and sex. The clients would throw scraps of bread at him and he was so hungry he’d do anything those horrible men asked.”

“Oh gods,” Yuuri gasped, struggling not to be sick. 

Yakov sat back, looking angry, somehow. “Are you really so selfish that you’d make all my workers suffer, just for Victor? What about little Yuri? He’s half barbarian, what do you think they’d do to him?”

Yuuri’s heart pounded, he gasped for breath as his mind conjured awful images of Victor, abused and desperate and alone, of Yuri beaten black and blue. Fucking hell, Yuuri thought, Yakov knew  _ exactly _ where to hit. 

He dug his fingernails into his palms and desperately tried to quiet his racing thoughts. Ultimately, it was  _ Yakov _ who had the authority to sell or keep a slave. If he lost the count’s patronage, it wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own if he decided human decency wasn’t worth the money lost. 

And he wouldn’t do that - not when he’d lose so much by getting rid of his workers. Or, maybe he would, but how dare he try to say it’d be Yuuri’s fault, but could Yuuri really forget that it wasn’t  _ just _ Victor who was suffering…

He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to think about it, but he couldn’t, not when Yakov was just using his emotion to prevent him from taking someone he loved. 

Yuuri may have been soft-hearted, but he’d learned a thing or two from mentors who had clawed their way up to Celestino’s favor - and he grit his teeth to choke back the last of his tears. 

With a deep breath, Yuuri said, hopefully with more confidence than he felt, “I am the heir to Lord Cialdini. I refuse to be baited by a whoremonger, and I will leave here with Victor. And Yuri, if need be.” 

Yakov’s face flushed a deep, angry red. “You may be heir to Lord Cialdini, but you are  _ not _ Lord Cialdini. Do you know how often the children of nobles come in here demanding I give them this slave, or that? And, of course, there’s the question of how  _ different _ you and your lord look.” He leaned in close and Yuuri forced himself not to flinch. “I’ll give you a chance. If Lord Cialdini comes in here and asks me himself, I’ll consider selling Victor to you. If not, well - he’ll be here the next time you want to come in.”

Yuuri felt a deep desire to throttle Yakov right then and there. He’d never been so angry in his entire life. What was the  _ point _ of being an heir if he couldn’t do the  _ one thing _ he’d needed his title for. 

Hot, boiling rage made his fingers tremble. 

“You can buy Yuri,” Yakov spat, “Brat’s more trouble than he’s worth. If, of course, you have the money up front.”

Right. Money. Fuck,  _ fuck _ , Yuuri swore inwardly, aware that his expression gave away what little advantage he might’ve had. He’d used up the rest of his allowance on visits to Victor, and had fully intended to cajole Celestino into a few months up front (or more outright thievery) for his purchase.

Simply put, he was broke. Yakov sat back, not quite as smugly as Yuuri expected, which somehow made him even angrier. 

“I’m going to have Victor,” Yuuri spit out, “No matter what. And if I find out you’ve hurt him for this conversation, you’ll learn quickly how much of a nuisance the child of a noble can be.”

  
“He won’t be punished for this,” Yakov said, flatly, “I don’t think I  _ could _ hurt him worse than you getting his hopes up already has.” 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't literally murder me for this chapter, I promise it only gets better from here.
> 
> This chapter took a while to post because it's longer, and also because I'm nervous about how dark it is. In my defense, a lot of the sad plot elements here happen in the original work, too. :P A bunch of things happen and they're mostly sad. Nothing that ruins their chances of an eventual happy ending, though, promise. Please stick with the chapter until the very end and you'll see that I have Plans beyond just torturing these poor characters.
> 
> Let me know if you thought characters' thought processes made sense, also - I don't want to include something upsetting that doesn't feel relevant to the plot or doesn't fit right with character motivations etc etc.
> 
> Chapter content warnings include: non-sexual physical abuse, extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemely dubiously consensual blowjobs, angst

Yuuri’s head swam as he followed the winding streets back to Celestino’s estate. He was an idiot, an absolute fucking  _ idiot _ \- the first night, he’d accidentally gotten Victor beaten for a brief moment of petty vindication, and now his own inability to  _ think _ had put both Victor  _ and _ Yuri through absolute hell.

He’d just wanted to stop Victor from being hurt.

All of that was, in addition to his cold attitude toward Phichit and Celestino, well and truly fucking him over - particularly his attitude towards the latter, who it was becoming clearer was  _ necessary _ to save Victor from the Count, from Yakov. Victor  _ and _ Yuri.

Had he ruined his chances? Celestino was much higher in rank than the Count, closer to the king than anyone else, some said. Anything he wanted, he got, and if there was no other way…

Yuuri tiptoed into the foyer. There was a light on in the living room to the left, casting an eerie glow down the hall, and Yuuri froze, eyes wide. Celestino never left the lights on after dark - he’d specifically instructed his servants against it. Yuuri swallowed thickly, the creak of the door opening suddenly an impossibly loud echo.

He’d been out for a walk. Clearing his head. Couldn’t sleep.

He dared to hope for a moment that it was Phichit, taking care of some late-night business, dared to consider for an even shorter time that he could shut the door again and run back to the Ice Castle.

_ Calm down _ , he chastised himself,  _ This is all your anxiety talking. You’ve been out late hundreds of times, and Celestino hasn’t cared. Much. _

Yuuri steeled himself and clicked the door closed. He was a few steps from the stairway, he could run-

Celestino stepped out into the foyer, a sort of quiet anger flashing in his eyes. How long had he been waiting for Yuuri to return home?

“I was just-” Yuuri began.

“Save it,” snapped Celestino. “I know where you’ve been. How  _ is  _ the Ice Prince doing?”

Cold shock coursed through him. “How… How did you…?”

Celestino’s voice was too quiet. “Your position in my household is too precarious for me  _ not _ to keep an eye on you. At all times.”

Yuuri trembled. What had he seen? What did he  _ know _ ? A sudden thought occurred to him, painful in its coldness. “Was… Was it Phichit?” Yuuri asked, trying to keep the hint of betrayal out of his tone.

“Partly,” Celestino admitted, “But my network is more extensive than just him. It’s got servants, merchants,” his eyes flashed, “pawn shop owners.”

If Yuuri was afraid before, he was terrified now. Celestino knew, he knew  _ everything _ Yuuri had done to see Victor. Phichit had warned him about this, why hadn’t he  _ listened _ ? His own prudishness, his desire to be desired by only one person, preventing him from thinking these things through, and now-

“I met him when Phichit dragged me there for the festival,” Yuuri explained, pleading for understanding, “I saw… I saw the kinds of things they put him through, and I couldn’t just sit there, I had to do something-”

“Save your bleeding heart,” growled Celestino.

“I know you hate slavery,” Yuuri begged, heart pounding in his throat, unable to stop himself, “I do too, I just wanted to give him a chance to get away from all the awful things they did. I wanted him to be free.”

“Do you love him?” Celestino asked. His expression was unreadable.

“No,” Yuuri blurted out, though the lie pained him. “I don’t, he’s just, I just-”

“I don’t believe you,” Celestino shouted, voice echoing in the empty foyer, “Why else would you steal from me, keep seeing him again and again?”

“I-”

“ _ Be silent, Yuuri! _ ”

There was a long, tense moment, where Celestino stared at him, hands twitching. Then, he sighed, the bright, blazing fury replaced by something colder.

“I’ve given you everything,” he murmured, “I took you and your guardian in, when I could’ve let you both die in the streets, and you repay me by stealing my things to spend time with a whore.”

Yuuri didn’t trust himself to speak. His hands were going cold.

Celestino continued, voice sharper, harder, piercing, “I never should have given you so much freedom. You’ve become spoiled, an unruly  _ child _ .” He gripped the belt, looped around his waist, “And if you’re going to act like a child, I’ll have to punish you like one.”

Yuuri barely heard the words, his eyes fixed on Celestino’s hands, unbuckling his belt, and he took two terrified steps back. “Don’t,” he pleaded, breaths coming quicker and quicker, “Don’t do this.”

“Hands on the wall,” Celestino snapped.

Yuuri shook his head, tears beading at the corners of his eyes, hands covering his mouth to stifle his terrified whimpers. He was frozen, terrified, out of options. What if he ran? He could run, and hope that by the time he returned Celestino was feeling a bit more-

Celestino slapped him. The crack of it echoed in the empty foyer, the sting bursting and hot on his cheek.

“ _ Hands on the wall _ ,” Celestino shouted, grabbing Yuuri by his collar and tossing him roughly against the gilded wall. His forehead smacked into a lavishly painted flower and he let out a terrified cry.

Where was Phichit? Phichit said Celestino would never do this. He’d told Celestino about Victor, though, after Yuuri trusted him, and Yuuri felt the sting of betrayal worse than the mark on his cheek. Had he lied about this, too?

Yuuri was hyperventilating.

“Please,” he pleaded, gasping, as Celestino’s hand curled into one of the belt loops on his pants, “Don’t do this, Phichit said you wouldn’t-”

That seemed to stay him, just for a moment, and Yuuri dared a glance a glance back.

“What do you mean, ‘Phichit said I wouldn’t?’” Celestino asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Yuuri didn’t dare speak, but his eyes flitted from Celestino’s face to his hands, gripping the waistband of his pants, and he shuddered at how ferociously understanding dawned on Celestino.

Celestino ripped his hands away like Yuuri was an open flame, flushing furiously.

“No,” Celestino spit out, “Gods,  _ no _ , you don’t… I wouldn’t...”

Yuuri’s lower lip trembled as Celestino continued to curse behind him, not daring to fan the spark of relief in his chest.

“I  _ raised _ you,” he snarled, “You think I would… You’ve been spending so much time at whorehouses you forgot how  _ decent men _ feel about such things.”

Yuuri gulped. He knew, he  _ knew _ , it was best to stay silent - but how could he get out of this? How could he weather this rage?

“What were you planning, then?” Yuuri asked, voice a quivering mess.

Celestino stopped raving and Yuuri regret asking, instantly. He knew Celestino wanted him, didn’t trust him not to try something just because he denied his desire.

“When you first moved in,” Celestino snapped, “Your guardian was  _ adamant _ I restrain from using corporal punishment when you misbehaved. You were such an agreeable child, for the most part, that I complied, but this,” he pushed Yuuri into the wall, forehead knocking painfully against the plaster, “this is inexcusable. I should’ve done this earlier - it would have saved me the trouble now.”

Then, Celestino’s hands were back at his waistband, and he yanked Yuuri’s pants down before he could process what Celestino said.

The first crack of the belt across his ass was more surprising than it was painful. Yuuri let out a high-pitched yelp of pain, his back arching as he flinched away.

Then came the second, and this time Yuuri felt the sting. He’d seen Celestino’s arms during fencing practice, felt the full power of his muscles as Celestino brought the belt down across his ass again, again, again-

It hurt,  _ gods _ it hurt. Yuuri had never been beaten before, not like this - a humiliated flush crept up his neck, the same bright red as the welts Celestino was leaving on his skin, and a slow, single trickle of blood down one thigh echoed the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

There was no relief. Celestino didn’t appear to be wearing out, worse, he picked up speed, grunting like an animal as swollen red welt overlapped welt.

Yuuri lost track of time, sinking into pain and fear and humiliation. He imagined Phichit looking down at him from the bannister, imagined his sweet face split into a wicked grin, wondered what he’d told Celestino. He could barely breathe, head swimming in animal terror.

All of a sudden, the slaps slowed down, stopped altogether. Yuuri’s ears were ringing, the low ticking of the hallway clock and his own ragged breathing the only things he could hear. He sunk to his knees, forehead pressed into the wall, nails digging into his arms as he tried to steady his whirling mind.

Yuuri sat there, pants still pooled below his hips, scratching bright red marks into his arms, for what felt like hours but was probably just a few moments. He’d managed to stop crying if only because he needed all his mental energy to remember how to breathe.

Celestino was still behind him, his own breathing loud like thunder. He placed a cool, calloused hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri flinched away violently.

The hand disappeared with a disappointed grunt. Yuuri’s ass  _ hurt _ . It was inflamed and bright red and screaming for relief. If Celestino was disappointed, Yuuri was in agony.

Celestino wouldn’t go away. Yuuri wanted to scream at him, shout,  _ what do you want from me?  Do you want more? _

Finally, once the black spots disappeared from the edges of Yuuri’s vision, he dared to peek around at his caretaker behind him, and his eyes widened in horror.

Celestino was  _ hard _ .

_ Of course he is, _ Yuuri thought, bitterly, remembering Celestino’s furious denial that he felt anything for Yuuri mere moments ago. Fear spiked in his chest again, and he pleaded inwardly that Celestino didn’t try to act on anything-

Celestino noticed, then. He noticed that Yuuri had noticed.

“Go - go clean yourself up. We’ll talk about other restrictions tomorrow, but I hope you’ve learned your lesson for tonight,” he spit out before all but running up the stairs.

Yuuri wondered if Phichit was there in his room, waiting for him. He dared a glance up to the bannister to find it empty - though that didn’t stop the sinking, awful sense of betrayal in his gut. Behind all of that, though, there was a strange sense of relief. He’d been so convinced that Celestino intended to rape him - apparently he did have some restraint.

His hands were still shaking, but he pulled his pants up and made his way to his own room, where he collapsed onto the bed in tears.

* * *

 

Yuuri had barely slept the night before, and yet, when morning dawned through freshly-drawn curtains, he found himself hardly able to move. Was the soft glance the servant sent his way normal? Who had heard what had happened last night?

His eyes flitted to the clock - it was late. Far later than normal. The servant shot a glance at him and said, “Breakfast in an hour.”

Yuuri winced and waited for the servant to leave before limping over to his private bath to survey the damage on his ass. There were only a few cuts, mostly just a crosshatch of raised red lines from his lower back to the tops of his thighs. Yuuri ran his fingers along one of his cheeks, over the welts, and hissed at the sting from a mere touch.

He dressed, wincing at the pain of fabric sliding over his injuries, and stared at his sunken-in eyes in the mirror.

At breakfast, Yuuri sat, and wanted to sob at the pain. Phichit was there, though, and so was Celestino - he’d be damned if he let on how much everything hurt. He forced down toast and jam and coffee, gritting his teeth every time he shifted positions.

“Wow, Ciao Ciao, you never let us sleep in,” Phichit grinned, shovelling toast into his mouth.

Celestino smiled at him fondly. “I had some business to take care of this morning, and you’ve been working so hard lately.”

Phichit made a pleased, if confused, noise through a mouthful of bread, trying to share a similarly happy glance with Yuuri. Yuuri couldn’t seem to manage it, though, and he continued to stare into his coffee blankly.

“Yuuri,” Celestino said, and Yuuri nearly dropped the glass in his hands, “I want you to come to court with me today. There’s something I need you to see.”

Yuuri didn’t want to go to court. He wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. There was no way to refuse, though - especially not with Celestino this angry at him. Even if there was something ominous about the way he’d phrased that.

“Of course,” he replied, softly, not meeting his gaze.

At his side, Phichit raised an eyebrow, and Yuuri wondered how much Phichit knew about all of this. He still didn’t quite trust him - some things Celestino wouldn’t have known without his information, but was he aware of last night?

The ride to court was pure agony. Each jolt, each jerk of the carriage, sent flames of pain shooting up his spine. By the end of it, Yuuri was gripping the seat cushions hard enough to tear them from the wooden base, and Phichit was eyeing him with concern.

“Are you alright, Yuuri?” He asked, putting his hand to Yuuri’s forehead.

“Fine,” Yuuri murmured, flinching away. He stepped down from the carriage and his knees nearly buckled beneath him - only Phichit, wrapping his arms under Yuuri’s, stopped him from collapsing altogether.

“Yuuri, what’s wrong? I can steal us away somewhere, you can tell me in private,” Phichit whispered in his ear, high-pitched and frantic.

“Leave it,” Yuuri half-sobbed.

He had a vision of telling Phichit, of Phichit reporting it back to Celestino, of the two of them laughing about it. His breath became shallower, and he bit his lip hard enough to bleed to force the image from his mind.

Court was packed. Yuuri didn’t know how any of it worked, and for once wondered whether he should’ve taken some time to learn all of the intricacies of the clearly complex social interactions occurring all around him. His ruffled jacket and shirt tickled his chin, and he had the uncomfortable urge to sneeze. He followed Celestino like a puppy, glancing to Phichit every few steps to make sure he wasn’t committing some awful faux-pas.

Big crowds made him nervous, big crowds of power-hungry nobles who would’ve ripped his heart from his chest and devoured it in front of him made him downright terrified. His usual support system was gone, and especially with the continuing sting of fabric against the welts, he felt naked and exposed.

A hush fell over the assembled group and Yuuri stared at a golden throne at the back of the massive hall.

In sauntered the king - a tall, dark-haired man, no - a  _ boy _ . Yuuri started at the youthful glimmer in his ice blue eye, the cocky smirk plastered across his lips. He got the sense that the king was his age, maybe even younger.

“Stop!” the king called out to the already silent court, “It’s JJ style!”

Yuuri had no idea what that meant. He saw Celestino roll his eyes, heard a mocking twitter run through the crowd. The utter disrespect the nobles seemed to have shocked him. This was their  _ king _ after all - Yuuri strained to remember anything about him.

His father had been a great ruler, Yuuri knew, as had his grandfather before him, or at least that’s what the nobles said. Powerful, focused, always with the best interests of his country at heart - spending money on military and infrastructure and dramatically expanding their overseas conquests.

Celestino stalked forward, and cold, icy fear poured over him. Was he meant to follow? He took a step forward and Phichit grabbed his arm, giving him an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

Yuuri puffed out a breath, relieved.

“King JJ,” Celestino boomed, bowing gracefully, “I trust you had a pleasant sleep.”

More mocking twitters. Yuuri blanched - the king was going to have Celestino’s head.

Instead, though, he just let out a loud laugh, head tossed back as though this was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “I did,” he grinned, completely unaware of the mocking around him.

“I have been preparing a most fitting gift for you,” Celestino continued, still bowed low, “On this occasion - that of your engagement to the lovely Princess Yang.”

“Of course,” JJ laughed, “How exciting for everyone.”

Celestino nodded. “And a very strategic ally for our kingdom, your Majesty.”

“Oh yeah, I suppose that’s important, too.”

“How does one provide for the man who has everything?” Celestino asked, then continued quickly, as king JJ appeared poised to answer, “I hope this will suffice, for the long, lonely nights before your wedding.”

Celestino nodded to somewhere outside of Yuuri’s field of vision, and he strained to see what the gift was. He strained, and stretched, and then he  _ saw _ .

Victor.

Victor, stepping forward with a practiced, bashful grace, thin silver robe floating like mist around his shoulders and hips. His hair was braided with beautiful white ribbons, his eyes downcast and demure, and he sunk gracefully to his knees, kissing the ground at the king’s feet.

“I present to you,” Celestino smirked, and Yuuri  _ swore _ he saw his eyes flash to him, “The Ice Prince.”

* * *

 

He was going to get another beating, Yuuri was sure, but at that point he couldn’t begin to care. It was have a beating later, or have an anxiety attack in the middle of  _ court _ , and at least the former would be in private.

Yuuri ran. He turned tail and fled from the massive great hall, knocking into a servant on the way out.

“Sorry,” he spluttered, helping the boy up, “Sorry.”

He slid down a side corridor and hid in the first secluded room he could find, in this case a broom closet, gripping his mouth to stifle the screams that threatened to come out.

He was hot, then cold, then hot again - emotions swinging like a pendulum from horror to anger back to horror.

_ Celestino, you petty, vindictive bastard _ , Yuuri thought, tears trickling out of his eyes,  _ You awful fucking monster, why,  _ why?

He let out a scream of rage and beat his fists into a barrel, knocking the cork loose. The heady scent of wine drifted out, reminding him of his first night at the Ice Castle, and he sobbed into his hands. Yuuri hit the wooden barrel again and again, until he’d beaten his knuckles into a bloody mess.

The door swung open and Celestino slipped inside, expression carefully neutral, as though he hadn’t placed every ounce of his energy to ruining Yuuri’s life. He closed the door behind him, and Yuuri couldn’t help himself - he took a swing at Celestino.

Celestino dodged, quickly, though a drop of blood from Yuuri’s knuckles landed on the lapel of his jacket.

“Why?” Yuuri asked, voice hoarse, fists still clenched, “Why would you do this to me?”

“He was distracting you,” Celestino said, nonchalance hiding a bubbling anger beneath the surface, “He was making you do stupid,  _ stupid _ things.”

“So what,” Yuuri shouted, grabbing Celestino’s collar, “So  _ what _ ? I know everyone else here gets up to worse shit.”

“Everyone else here has less to lose,” Celestino roared back, shaking himself free and gripping Yuuri’s wrist with enough force to bruise. “My entire estate is at stake, my position with the king-”

“So you give up every ounce of your morals because someone might  _ gossip  _ about you?” Yuuri cried, “You  _ hate  _ slavery, you hypocritical  _ bastard- _ ”

This hit was a punch. Close fisted, not the cold anger of a father punishing a child but the hot, burning rage between adults. Yuuri tasted blood.

“ _ I picked you up from the  _ streets,” Celestino grabbed him, shook him  _ hard _ , “I  _ made _ you,  _ moulded  _ you, and I’m not going to give that up because you want to screw around with a  _ slave _ . He’s nothing but a distraction from me, and I’m keeping him away from you for your own good - so you can be the  _ lord _ you were meant to.”

Yuuri let out a furious growl, trying to shake free. That didn’t make  _ sense _ . Every goddamn lord and lady screwed around, some more discreet than others. Their sons screwed around. Their daughters screwed around. The Crispino twins had sex  _ with each other, _ and no one thought blonde Emil actually was Lord Nicola’s biological son. So why, why was Celestino-?

Yuuri’s realization hit him harder than the punch.

“You’re not doing this for my own good,” he whispered, voice quaking with horror as he froze in place, “You’re doing this because you’re jealous.”

Celestino went white. His lips pressed together in a thin line, his whole body  _ convulsed _ with rage, and Yuuri’s mind shifted into overdrive.

He could apologize, plead, beg, but none of those had  _ worked _ . Not begging for his own safety, not begging Celestino to understand that Victor’s situation was awful - not the knowledge that Celestino was one of the few anti-slavery nobles in court, and that somehow hadn’t been enough to stop him from treating Victor like property because Victor had caught Yuuri’s attention.

Yuuri thought, inexplicably, of Minako - he’d never had to fend for himself before. Not like this, not without her. She was quick thinking, able to pinpoint exactly what her target wanted. Celestino had needed an heir, but he’d been unable to conceive - he needed an unattached bastard with a soft, mouldable mind who would take orders and smile and look pretty as he did what Celestino said.

What did Celestino want that Yuuri could give?

He knew. He  _ knew _ .

And he realized that Phichit, much like Minako in his ability to read a man’s weaknesses and desires, must’ve known, somehow, that it would come to this. Phichit and his stupid, too-cryptic warnings, his possible betrayal-

He didn’t need to do this. He could walk away, let the anger fester, but if he did that he’d lose all money, all privacy, all chance of fixing this. So long as he wanted Yuuri, and Yuuri wasn’t his, he would make things  _ miserable _ for everyone Yuuri cared about. He didn’t doubt that Celestino knew people who could torment Viktor, even under the king’s watchful eye.

Celestino always got what he wanted.

Yuuri swallowed. He grabbed Celestino’s wrist and brought his hand, clenched into a fist, to his lips.

“I didn’t realize, I was so oblivious,” he continued, prying two fingers out of the fist and licking them, delicately. Yuuri took a deep, aching breath, and looked Celestino deep in the eye. “Celestino - you never had to be.”

Celestino’s eyes went wide. His face turned red, then purple, then drained of color. The furious tremble of his shoulders lessened, and Yuuri slid Celestino’s two fingers inside his mouth. He licked at them, separating the two digits with his tongue, staring at his caretaker’s face for a slow, parted lip gasp of pleasure.

All of a sudden, Celestino ripped his fingers out, staring at Yuuri in a horror that barely masked his desire. Yuuri gulped.

Of all the awful, cruel men in the world, he’d genuinely never expected Celestino to be one of them. Last night, he’s pleaded Victor’s case, used every ounce of pathos he could muster, but because it conflicted with Celestino’s own selfish vision of the world, it had done nothing.

A vision where Yuuri could be his, only his.  _ Celestino always got what he wanted _ \- and Yuuri realized with some mixture of horror and determination that the only way to get out of this was  _ through _ . To play along and hope for the opportunity to run when Celestino let his guard down, which would probably happen sooner if Yuuri could-

If he could-

Yuuri pressed up against Celestino before sinking to his knees in front of him. He ignored the jolt of pain as his injuries from last night’s beating were jostled by his movements, instead focusing on nuzzling his nose into the front of Celestino’s soft, velvet pants.

“You don’t need to be jealous,” Yuuri whispered against the fabric. “Vi- The Ice Prince was legendary. I cared for him, about him, but please d-don’t think…”

He couldn’t finish, so he turned his eyes to the ground.

Celestino’s breath hitched, but he didn’t stop him. Yuuri stared up at him through thick lashes, demure, and hitched his fingers into the waistband of Celestino’s pants and slowly pulled them down.

“Someone might see,” Celestino pretended to worry.

“They won’t,” Yuuri moaned, a pool of disgust in his gut as Celestino’s dick sprang free, half hard already. “They’re busy watching him, but I’m here.”

He took a deep, steeling breath, and licked a long stripe along the length. Celestino gripped his hair, letting out a low moan as he guided Yuuri’s head to the tip.

_ So much for being worried about societal ruin, you sick hypocritical fuck, _ Yuuri thought, wrapping his lips around the tip and swirling his tongue around the slit, mouthing just there for a moment before Celestino grunted in impatience and slid his mouth further down on his cock.

It was just beyond his depth, and Yuuri gagged slightly - Celestino released his head so he could cough, once, and let him set the pace as he began sucking again. His hands fisted around the base of Celestino’s cock, moving up and down to meet his pursed lips as he bobbed up and down.  

Yuuri had been sucking for barely a few moments, choking down his anxiety with globs of precome, before Celestino came deep in his mouth with no warning. His eyes widened, and it took all of his effort not to gag and spit it all up onto the floor, onto his pants, but he forced it down, swallowing both it and his self-respect. 

Celestino’s breath was ragged, just like the night before, but it slowly evened out over the course of a few moments. About the same amount of time it had taken him to come, Yuuri thought. 

“Shall we… Shall we return to the main hall?” he asked, nonchalant, like Yuuri wasn’t still on his knees on the floor, a strand of saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Let me,” Yuuri said, voice unwavering in his shock, “Give me a few moments to clean up. I’ll join you soon.” 

Celestino nodded, shakily, and ruffled Yuuri’s hair affectionately before slipping out of the broom closet.

Yuuri knew that if he broke down now, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and he’d ruin everything he’d just done. His hands shook, he stared at the floor, unfocused. He’d needed Celestino back on his side if he had any chance of fixing this, and after last night, he knew there hadn’t been any other way. 

He thought of Minako again, wondering what she would say, if she were alive.  

Dazed, numb, he stood on shaking legs, wincing as feeling seeped back into his body. If he dawdled, Celestino might suspect something was wrong.  

Yuuri made his way to court, the taste of Celestino still heavy on his tongue. There were a few glances in his direction, but most people were enthralled by Victor, dancing and shining like silver before the king.  

 _Just wait_ , Yuuri told himself, _Just wait a little bit longer. Then you can plan. Then you can be upset about this_.  

A wave of applause met the end of Victor’s performance, and Yuuri swore Victor caught his eye, swore he saw an ocean of unfathomable sadness in his gaze.  

 _I’m sorry_ , Yuuri’s soft heart sobbed, _I’m sorry, I tried to protect you. I failed._  

 _Endure,_ Yuuri’s rational consciousness screamed at him, _endure, endure, endure._  

He brought his hand up to his mouth, making sure the golden ring reflected the light streaming in, hoping Victor could see it glinting. With a quick glance to ensure Celestino wasn’t watching, he kissed the band, not breaking eye contact. 

Victor bowed, lowly, and went back to sit beside the throne, a pretty silver pet next to a golden chair. He glanced at Yuuri one more time, then brought his own hand up to his lips. To any of the assembled court, it would seem as though he was simply wiping a sheen of sweat from his upper lip, but Yuuri knew.

He knew, and he saw, and he would do anything to make this right.

* * *

 The ride there had been agonizing, but the ride back was pure torture. Yuuri was sewn together with the thinnest of threads, knowing that any moment he might split apart. He fixed his eyes on a loose thread at Phichit’s cuff, watched it swing at the carriage’s movements.

He tried to remember how to breathe.

Phichit kept glancing from him, tense and trembling, to Celestino, relaxed and satisfied, as though he wanted to say something. He pleaded that Phichit would keep silent - if Yuuri tore his eyes from the thread for more than a moment, he’d break.

They arrived at the estate with the sun hanging low in the evening sky. Celestino turned to Yuuri and ruffled his hair, just as he had in the broom closet earlier, looking a little embarrassed.

“I was hard on you,” Celestino muttered, “But I was just worried you were headed down the wrong path. Let’s start putting this unpleasantness behind us, alright Yuuri?”

Yuuri nodded, as though Celestino had taken away his allowance and not the love of his life and his dignity.

“Of course,” he murmured.

Celestino nodded. “Alright. And, Yuuri - you did well today. Now that your head is clear, you can focus on being the man your guardian always intended you to be.”

Yuuri felt the long, lingering glance Celestino gave him long after he’d left the room. He stood there, concentrating on the sound of his own breathing, willing himself up the stairs and into the bath.

“Yuuri,” Phichit’s voice shook, “What’s going on with you? Is this because of Victor? I can explain-”

“I need,” Yuuri replied, looking through him as cracks began to form in his carefully calm demeanor, “I need to. I need to relax. You know how I am about crowds.”

“Yuuri…” Phichit tried again, desperate and afraid by the dull, cracked monotone of Yuuri’s voice in a way that seemed genuine. Didn’t seem artificial. Perhaps, though, like Celestino, Phichit had underestimated the effect this would have on him.

Gods, he’d told Phichit  _ everything _ . Yuuri turned, mechanically, and went up the stairs without so much as a glance back. He didn’t think he could bear it.

Yuuri slipped into his private bathroom, out of his stifling clothes, and turned a faucet at the bath to produce a scalding stream of water.

He sunk to his knees, naked, and let his rush of feelings finally overwhelm him. A deep well of anguish flowed over him and he clenched his hands into fists, sobbing into the side of the tub as it filled. In one day, everything had changed.

He was completely, utterly alone.

Yuuri punched the side of the tub with his already bruised knuckles. It hurt, the pain a constant cacophony in his ringing ears, and his stomach roiled as he remembered everything Celestino had put him through. He could still  _ taste _ him.

Suddenly, the bile was rising in his throat, and Yuuri barely had time to flop over to the toilet before emptying the contents of his guts into the bin below him. He heaved, and sobbed, and heaved some more, relishing in the acrid taste of vomit because it wasn’t as awful as his caretaker’s  _ come _ .

_ You let him do that _ , Yuuri snarled at himself as he fell back against the sides of the tub, crying,  _ you let him. And Victor is still gone, and there’s still no one you can trust _ .

As if on cue, there came a frantic knocking at the bathroom door, and Phichit’s voice floated through the steam that was now filling the small space. Yuuri ignored him, and the water ran over the sides of the tub, hot as fire over his skin.

He couldn’t bring himself to stand and turn the water off. It slid in agonizing rivulets along his already sensitive skin, pooling, slightly cooler, where he was sitting on his welt-red ass.

“Yuuri, are you crying? Please, let me in, let me help you.”

_ I don’t believe you _ , Yuuri snarled, but he slumped back against the tub and let out another series of low sobs. His head was spinning, his hands tingling and numb, his chest heaving as he struggled to take in the steam-thick air.

There was a loud  _ crack _ as Phichit kicked the door clean open, splinters of wood from the broken lock falling on the smooth tile. Yuuri barely moved from the scalding stream as Phichit knelt beside him.

“Ouch! Yuuri, it’s burning you-”

The sound of rushing water disappeared. Yuuri could hear his own breathing, high pitched, hyperventilating - he reached up, gripping his hair, curling into his knees to cry out. Everything was swirling, foggy,  _ wrong _ -

“Yuuri, Yuuri, look at me-”

“ _ No _ ,” Yuuri shouted, scrambling back, hands slipping on the floor from the puddles. “Get away from me!”

“Yuuri, please, I didn’t know he’d do this,” Phichit pleaded, voice cracked and desperate.

“Stop lying,” Yuuri sobbed, “I don’t believe you.  _ I don’t believe you _ .”

“I’m not,” Phichit cried, gripping Yuuri by the wrist as he dug his nails into his arms, “I swear I’m not. Yuuri, look at me,  _ breathe _ -”

Yuuri pushed him off and curled up in a corner of the bathroom, trembling and sobbing, the wet spots on his naked skin cold. Phichit sat there as he wept, kneeling beside him, head down.

“Yuuri,” Phichit said, voice thick with his own unshed tears, “You’re bleeding.”

He was gone, and for a moment Yuuri relished in the quiet, aching solitude of the bathroom. He stared down with watery eyes at his knuckles, the little bits of porcelain sticking out like bone shards. He’d barely even felt that, but now the low throb in his body was spreading out, seeping into him to replace the cold emptiness. He wanted to throw up again, could make himself throw up-

Then Phichit returned, kneeling beside Yuuri like he was worried his friend would shatter. Well, the joke was on him, Yuuri thought, because Yuuri felt like he  _ had _ shattered.

“Can I bandage your hand?” Phichit asked, carefully.

Yuuri’s hand  _ hurt _ , but he shook his head and curled deeper into his corner, shooting Phichit a watery glare.

“Yuuri,” Phichit ‘s voice was measured, “I swear on everything I love, on my own life, that I didn’t know he would do this.”

“So you did tell him,” Yuuri bit back.

Phichit winced. “I tried not to. Yuuri, when you stole his jewelry, I couldn’t throw him off your trail anymore. It was too obvious what you had done, and why you’d done it.”

Oh, so this was his fault. Yuuri tried to be righteously angry about it, but all he could feel was an all-consuming, agonizing guilt. It  _ had _ been his fault - if he’d just listened…

“Oh, no no, Yuuri, please don’t cry,” Phichit soothed, and he rest his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder.

Yuuri cried out and flinched away, covering his head with his hands, and Phichit’s hand flew back like he’d been scalded.

“Yuuri,” Phichit asked, an edge in his tone, suddenly, “That’s not all, is it? What did he do to you?”

Yuuri shifted, slightly, so Phichit could see the beginnings of bright red lines on his hip. Phichit’s hands clenched into fists.

“Oh no, Yuuri…” Phichit whispered to him, close, “Did he… Did he do anything else? Force you...?”

“Fuck  _ off _ , Phichit,” Yuuri sobbed, trying to sound angry but only succeeding in a pathetic whine. “I let him. Not the beating, but...”

Phichit sucked in a breath. “Oh,” he said.

“What else could I do? That’s  _ why _ he sold Victor off,” he fixed Phichit with an accusing stare, “But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew I might have to…”

Phichit didn’t meet his gaze. “I suspected,” he sighed, “And, Yuuri… I think you did the right thing. He would’ve fumed for ages if you hadn’t. I wish I could’ve talked to you first, I wish he hadn’t sprung this on you, backed you into a corner and made you feel like you had to-”

“Don’t tell me I did the right thing,” Yuuri snapped, “I don’t want your approval. I _trusted_ you.”  

His voice cracked again. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit said, slowly, “I swear to you, I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t already painfully obvious. I didn’t… I didn’t try to stop him, though. He was so distracted, I couldn’t lose the opportunity…”

“For what?” Yuuri cried. “Opportunity for  _ what _ , Phichit? And don’t you give me that cryptic bullshit - what could possibly be worth hurting me like this?”

Phichit’s lip trembled. “I can’t tell you now,” he murmured, wincing as Yuuri let out another aching sob, “But I promise I’ll show you. What you did today with Celestino - that helped. And it’ll make your life easier.”

Yuuri sighed and slumped back, the anger seeping slowly out of him, replaced by cold resignation. “It’ll make my life easier,” he said, “But now I’m back where I was all those years ago. I mean, Celestino sold him off to the only person too powerful to outbid. He’s the king’s possession now.”

Something strange passed over Phichit’s face. He tried for the third time to touch Yuuri, and Yuuri found he didn’t have the strength to push him away. He melted into Phichit’s arms, a wave of fresh tears falling down his cheeks as Phichit nestled him underneath his chin.

“I broke your trust,” he murmured, running his hands through the sweaty strands of Yuuri’s black hair. “But I know how I can gain it back.”

Yuuri didn’t respond, but he stared up at Phichit, equal parts doubtful and interested.

Phichit met his gaze, black eyes blazing. “Victor can’t belong to the king,” he explained, lips curling into a dark-edged grin, “If there is no king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist, you've actually been reading Les Mis this entire time. They don't all die at the end, though, don't worry.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short, I'm sorry!! Next one should be coming in less than a week, though. It turns out being on summer break means long days of doing literally nothing and that includes pulling out my fanfic word docs and actually working on them LOL.
> 
> Basically, we have one more Yuuri POV chapter, then we switch to Victor's POV for a bit. You definitely are gonna meet King JJ, and while Yuri P. won't show up for a while, I've got some pretty big plans for his character here. Basically, I've written out a few future chapters, but I'm getting a little stuck re: the actual ~revolution~. I might need to take some time to puzzle out those details, though I definitely have some scenes I'm very excited to write (and that I think you'll like as well, going off of various recurring themes in your comments, haha). 
> 
> Also! I made a [tumblr](https://revampired.tumblr.com/). Feel free to shoot me questions about this or any of my other fic on there. I'm mostly just reblogging cute art for now and I'm terrible at interacting with people online (I promise I appreciate all of your lovely lovely comments, I'm not trying to be rude to you if I don't reply I just get overwhelmed ;o;), so we'll see how this goes.

Yuuri slept fitfully, lying awake in bed for hours as he wondered what Victor was doing, wondering if he felt as betrayed as Yuuri had.  _ I didn’t mean for this to happen,  _ Yuuri pleaded to the dark ceiling of his room,  _ I didn’t want this _ .  _ I’m so, so sorry _ .

Breakfast the next morning was hard. Yuuri watched Celestino prowl around the room, going over his list of things to do, fearing that he would try to ruffle Yuuri’s hair or touch his shoulder but knowing he’d need to keep still to stop any suspicion.

He took sips of coffee with cream, nibbles of toast with butter, and tried to pretend they weren’t churning together in his gut.

“You planning on stealing Yuuri away today, Phichit?” Celestino joked, and Yuuri bit back a scream. He shot a small smile at Celestino from across the table, though, popping a fresh cherry into his mouth. The burst of tart sweetness was overwhelming on his tongue.

Phichit nodded, firmly. “He’s been neglecting his lessons. Did you notice how he was acting in court yesterday? It was atrocious.”

Celestino waved his hand. “I’ll allow it then,” he said, gruffly, though there was still a hint of a smile in his eyes, “I’ll see you two in the evening, then, for dinner.” There was an implication in his voice that didn’t allow for any changed plans, any dissent, and Yuuri’s gut churned.

Yuuri nodded, eyes downcast. He heard the creak of Celestino getting up from the chair and let out a breath. Suddenly, there was a warm palm on his shoulder, and Yuuri dug his nails into his thigh to stop himself from jumping.

Celestino left, then, and Yuuri watched his broad back as he retreated down the hall, heartbeat thumping in his throat.

“Come with me,” Phichit said, “Let’s take a walk.”

They both made their way out of the estate, and Phichit leaned against Yuuri to comfort him, but Yuuri cringed away.

“Please don’t touch me,” he pleaded, not meeting Phichit’s gaze.

Phichit let out a sad sound of acknowledgement, and lead him through the rich gardens. Yuuri had a pounding headache, and he barely kept up as Phichit lead him through winding streets, into neighborhoods Yuuri hadn’t ever visited. Gloomy, dilapidated houses loomed over them, cracked street lamps solemn in the daytime.

There were a few signs, even more ripped up remnants thereof.  _ Community meeting Saturday. Town Hall Wednesday. _

Yuuri had no idea what was going on, or where they were going - he knew this was a low-income area of the city, a ratty old corner where blue-collar workers who made too little money resided, a stagnant cesspit of discontent. Phichit led Yuuri to a bar, still populated, even in the daytime - it was old and large enough to attract a diverse clientele, anything too local and they’d stick out like a sore thumb.

“We’ll meet someone here soon,” Phichit explained, “But for now, I need to explain a few things. Firstly, I wondered if I should tell you this, but…”

Yuuri raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t respond. Phichit had been so secretive for so long, and now Yuuri’s heart felt like it was cracked in his chest.

Phichit bit his lip, “It wasn’t just for a fun night out. I brought you to the Ice Castle that night because I was having a meeting. I bought Melchior for you so you’d be occupied for enough time to conduct said meeting - I thought you’d play your part and find someone there to go home with and that would be that. I never expected… this.”

“Victor,” Yuuri supplied, then he realized something, and a spasm of pain crossed over his face. “So… You leaving me there - it wasn’t an accident?”

Phichit stilled, and when he spoke again, his voice was very small. “It would’ve broken my heart if something had happened to you,” he promised, pleaded, and Yuuri couldn’t even find the strength to be angry at him.

Instead, he asked, “Why on earth would you want to have a meeting there?”

“It was our friend here,” Phichit gestured towards the empty seat, “who suggested it. He knows someone who was sold to work there.”

“That’s so tragic,” Yuuri murmured, half to himself, “I don’t understand how anyone could stand watching that person be hurt.”

Phichit frowned, then, and treaded delicate ground as he continued. “You wanted to know why I was sleeping with Celestino if it wasn’t to protect you. I knew… I knew he wouldn’t force you in the, well, calling it the normal way doesn’t feel right. But you know how pampered he is, and I wondered, I worried if he’d find some way to back you into a corner with this…” He sighed, suddenly looking very tired. “I couldn’t predict how. I thought it might have something to do with Victor, but I didn’t know how I could stop it without putting everything in danger.”

“Your plan,” Yuuri hissed.

Phichit looked up at him, and his eyes were shining desperately. “Not just my plan, but  _ you _ ,” he insisted, “I never wanted him to hurt you. I hoped I was wrong, I hoped so much-”

“And you weren’t wrong,” Yuuri cut him off. Then, as though he’d been physically drained, he slumped down in his seat. “No, no, I’m sorry, Phichit - you were. I never had to do that. If you were right, he never would’ve touched me. I let him do that, I can’t… I can’t even say I was forced. I just thought it might make living with him easier. Being beaten  _ hurt _ .”

Phichit’s eyes glistened, and Yuuri caught him blinking rapidly. That made him self-conscious somehow, so he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know if it’ll help to say this,” Phichit said, voice barely above a whisper, “but it’s not a choice if you agree because you’re afraid of what’ll happen if you say no. If you’re afraid he’ll take your choice out on the people you love.”

Yuuri closed his eyes and sighed. There was something heavy in Phichit’s words, something too dark for Yuuri to wrap his mind around. It was like a roiling ball of  _ bad _ and Yuuri was afraid of what it’d do to him if he poked at it.

“I don’t think it does help,” Yuuri admitted, voice very quiet as well. “Please, Phichit, just tell me why you were sleeping with him.”

Phichit looked physically pained, but he honored Yuuri’s request and answered, “He keeps all his most private correspondence locked in a drawer in his desk, and he never lets anyone in his room without his strict permission,” he cast a sardonic glance at Yuuri, “Except you, of course, but at the time I came up with the plan I couldn’t be sure you’d follow along with it and not tell him. I got a locksmith to duplicate his desk key, and I just… Needed access.”

“How do you know I won’t tell him now?” Yuuri asked, mostly just to see the expression on Phichit’s face. “You’re… You’re planning  _ treason _ , Phichit.”

Phichit sighed sadly and reached out to touch his cheek before remembering how Yuuri flinched away earlier. He drew his hand back.

“I didn’t want you to join us because Celestino shattered your trust, but that’s what happened. And  _ that’s _ how I know you won’t rat us out. That, and the fact that you’re a good person.”

Yuuri didn’t answer.

“But,” Phichit continued, “I’m telling you all of this so  _ you _ trust  _ me _ . Celestino hiring me was all part of a plan I’ve had since I was a child - and it’s a plan that’s  _ finally _ getting off the ground. I want you to be a part of it with me. We’re doing something big here, Yuuri.”

Suddenly, a rustle of fabric took Yuuri’s attention, and recognition made him gasp.

“I’ve seen your face,” he murmured, staring into a pair of serious black eyes.

The man stared at him, suspicious.

“Yes,” Phichit chirped, “Those wanted posters capture your likeness a little too well. Yuuri, this is Otabek.”

“Hi,” Yuuri said, meekly, shrinking under the intensity of his gaze.

Otabek barely acknowledged him, instead addressing Phichit. “Are we sure about him? He looks like a squealer.”

Yuuri felt a flash of anger at that, cutting through the soup of his guilt.

“He’s not,” Phichit assured him, “He’ll help us, I promise.”

“Did you mean it?” Yuuri asked, “When you said you wanted the current king gone?” He paused, then, and his eyes darted around the room to make sure no one had heard.

Otabek gave Phichit a pointed glance, which seemed to say  _ are you really going to fall for that bait _ ? Yuuri’s cold nervousness gave way to anger.

“I’m not a squealer,” Yuuri snapped. “I… In fact, I’m the one who’s gonna get you close to the king, if you’re really serious about this.” He bit his lip, then, to stop it from trembling. “Though I’ll… I’ll need your help.”

Phichit raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Yuuri felt a thrill at being in charge for a change.

“I know someone who’s  _ really _ close to the king,” He continued, voice low, “Hell, he’s probably in the king’s bed  _ right now _ .”

It was Phichit’s turn to look suspicious. “I’m not sure-” he began.

“What was your plan, then?” Yuuri hissed. He winced, fear of confrontation making his hands shake, “I’m sure you had one, but how much easier would it be if we could just… Get someone on the inside.”

“We have people on the inside, though no one  _ that _ close to the king,” Phichit said slowly, “You need to be aware of what you’re asking Victor to do.”

“I am,” Yuuri insisted. “I… I can talk him into it.” Suddenly, the gravity of the crime hit him, and Victor faded from his thoughts for a moment. “I… Why do we need him  _ gone _ ? If we could talk to him, maybe he’d-”

“He won’t listen,” Otabek cut in. “We’ve petitioned, pleaded, and gone on strike. All they do is jail us and beat us and sell us into slavery when we can’t pay off all our fees.”

“Wages are stagnating and nobles like Cialdini don’t care as long as they have their fortunes,” Phichit added in, “They get their riches from exploiting slaves to the east and the north, and none of it comes to us. I’ve heard… I’ve heard there are places across the sea that work without a king. I think, if we play our cards right, we could be the first on the continent.”

“I can tell by the look on your face that this is all news to you,” Otabek commented, eyebrow raised in annoyance.

Yuuri snapped his open jaw shut. He flushed, realizing that Otabek was completely right. He got a scrap of nobility and suddenly every problem his parents, his Minako had worried about disappeared.

“I have a lot to learn,” he said, trying to keep the desperate edge out of his voice, “But I want to help. I  _ can _ help. This isn’t fair, and if I hadn’t gotten lucky, I’d be right where you are.”

Phichit was smiling at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well, then,” he grinned, “Let’s get to planning.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really pleased by the last chapter's reception!! Thank you so much :D I'll respond to your comments individually soon. I know you haven't really gotten the info on the actual plan... That's because I'm still working it out. :P Sorry, it'll definitely be concrete by the time you get to see it.
> 
> Content warning for more creepy sex with Celestino this chapter (or sexual acts if not full-on sex).

They walked back after, arm in arm, a little bit like before.

“Do you really think you can get Victor to kill the king?” Phichit murmured, breath hot in Yuuri’s ear.

Yuuri swallowed. “I think so. I think he’d do anything for me.”

“Don’t tell him to do anything until I give you the okay,” Phichit responded, “Otabek and I are certain that he needs to be good and dead, but there are still groups who think he can be reasoned with. I think they’ll see, in the end, that we’re right - but we can’t lose them in the meantime.”

“Why are you so sure?” Yuuri asked. Then, he blinked and said, “Wait, other groups?”

Phichit looked at him, amused. “You didn’t think it was just the two of us, did you?”

“I wouldn’t know, Phichit,” Yuuri snapped, “You don’t tell me  _ anything _ .

Phichit’s smile froze on his face, then it disappeared like it had never been there. He looked… He dropped Yuuri’s gaze, his arm, before Yuuri could see the look on his face. Oh, Yuuri thought as the anger dissipated, oh, he was just trying to joke. Like before.

Yuuri breathed out, the sound rattling through his teeth. Tears sprung up in the corners of his eyes.

“I,” Yuuri tried, voice breaking.

“It’s okay, Yuuri,” Phichit said, still not looking at him, “It’s okay. I know how hard this has been on you, so if you need time…”

“Phichit,” Yuuri said desperately, “I’m sorry. I don’t like how upset I am at you all the time, but I don’t know how to stop it. I still feel so confused.”

“I’m so used to keeping secrets from you, keeping secrets in general,” Phichit murmured, half to himself. “I never know who’s going to use them against me. I decided that I trusted you enough to let you be a part of this, so I need to let you in more.”

Yuuri bit his lip and took Phichit’s arm, again, letting Phichit rest his head on his shoulder for a moment.

“I’ll get you in to talk to Victor,” Phichit said, “It’s… Complicated with my contact in the palace, but we should be able to get you in more than once, depending on a bunch of things even she won’t tell me.”

“Thank you, Phichit,” Yuuri said, relaxing noticeably.

“You wanted this to begin with,” Phichit noted.

_ For every Victor I save, there’s a dozen slaves still behind him. _

“Of course I did,” Yuuri said. “If there was anyone who could sneak me inside the palace to see him, it was you. I meant what I said though. I’m in this with you now, till the end.”

Phichit nodded. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something else, and pain shone in his eyes. He kept it to himself, though, so Yuuri didn’t comment.

When they got home, the door creaking closed behind them, Celestino was working on some official-looking papers on the dining room table. He raised his eyes and saw his boys.

“Yuuri,” he said, voice gruff and not betraying the ill-intent Yuuri knew was behind it, “Will you help me take some things upstairs?”

Yuuri gulped.  _ I’m in this with you _ , he told himself as he followed his caretaker up the stairs, trembling,  _ till the end. _

* * *

 

“Yuuri,” Celestino murmured, holding his arms out. Yuuri sunk into him, inhaling the heady sweat and sweet cologne. Celestino’s hands, broad and warm, massaged the tense muscles in his back. “You look uncomfortable in those clothes.”

Yuuri stared up at him, blankly, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. Celestino waited a few moments for him to comprehend, and when it became clear that wasn’t happening, let out an annoyed grunt and unlaced the tie at Yuuri’s neck.

_ Oh _ . Yuuri smiled, stilling Celestino’s hands, and stripped off his own clothing, making sure his movements were slow and soft and sensual. How he’d seen Victor move once long ago, peering through a keyhole, frozen to the spot with fear.

He stood, bare, hands sliding slowly down his chest. Celestino drew him back into his arms and whispered in his ear, “You took care of me today. Let me return the favor.”

Yuuri shivered as Celestino lead him to the bed and cajoled him onto his hands and knees. Suddenly, something cool and wet was on his ass cheek, and Yuuri jolted at the tingling sensation.

“Does it still hurt?” Celestino asked, slathering cooling lotion onto Yuuri’s red welts.

“A little,” Yuuri admitted, sighing as the remaining pain slipped away. He didn’t know what Celestino planned, but he hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

So, he gave in to Celestino once and now suddenly Celestino got fuck him whenever he wanted, no holds barred. He tried to think about it rationally - tried to pull his rational mind out of the black pit it was tumbling into. From Celestino’s perspective, he’d willingly given his body to him, told him Victor had meant nothing, and then sucked his dick in a broom closet during court. To Celestino, this was the honeymoon phase where they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Rational.

Of course, a normal couple wouldn’t have started because one party had gotten rid of all competition, a normal couple wouldn’t involve a supposed uncle and nephew no matter if the blood ties weren’t really there, and a  _ normal couple _ wouldn’t phrase sex as a command.

Phichit had never commanded him to do anything - not like this, at least, not without the implication he could ask them to stop at any time. He’d die before even dreaming of commanding any kind of sex from Victor. Fuck,  _ fuck _ , his mind was going to that dark place again, and he forced himself to be blank. Feel blank.

A warm, strong hand wrapped around his waist and grabbed his cock. Yuuri gasped, arching his back, as warm, tingling pleasure pooled in his belly. Celestino pumped him with practiced skill, and Yuuri supposed it wasn’t an objectively bad handjob, but wondering what might happen after kept him on edge.

He thought of Victor’s face, and Victor’s hands, and he hardened at the touch and rough treatment. It was over in moments, Yuuri’s body responding to contact he could barely stand, and he made sure to call out Celestino’s name as he came.

Yuuri’s ass was slick from the lotion, and he flopped down onto his side. Celestino ruffled his hair, as he had before, and Yuuri glanced up at him, feigning an innocent giggle. He was hard, obvious through his thin pants, and Yuuri pulled his hips to his mouth, laying him back on the bed, gently.

He leaned over to suck Celestino off for the second time in one day, grateful for the angle and modicum of control as he bent down to take the tip against his lips, into his mouth. Yuuri glanced, briefly, at Celestino - he was lying back, almost fully clothed, eyes shut and hands linked together behind his head.

A picture of dominance. Yuuri wanted to throw up, but instead he forced himself to keep bobbing up and down, forced himself to swallow. Again. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, disguising his fear as exhaustion, and melted into the soothing touches being run up and down his trembling back.

Finally, Yuuri could open his eyes, feeling numb and hollow.

Celestino grinned broadly at him and said, “Let me clean up, then come back here and sleep next to me.”

_ Why wouldn’t you sleep next to your supposed lover? _ Yuuri thought. Right. Rational. Rational.

Yuuri gulped and nodded, slinking gratefully back to his room. He was completely naked, trembling and cold, but he didn’t bother with clothing as he crept along the corridor to his room, a few doors down.

Phichit was waiting there on his bed, warm cup of spiced cider in hand. Yuuri smiled, gratefully, and gulped it down.

“Do you think,” Yuuri murmured, clicking his door shut behind him, “That Celestino actually believes I love him? Does he realize that I think of Victor the entire time?”

“I honestly don’t think so,” Phichit said, “He’s so used to getting what he wants… I don’t think it’s crossed his mind that you might not be wholeheartedly into this, even though he did sell off Victor.”

“Why do you think that?” Yuuri murmured, almost to himself, “You always say things like that, about the Lords, about everyone - why, Phichit?”

“Because,” Phichit sighed, “I know what men with power are like.”

“Surely, not everyone can be evil?” Yuuri said, desperately.

“It’s better not to take a chance,” Phichit responded, and Yuuri didn’t miss the suddenly clipped edge to his voice. “You’ll only get hurt if you do.”

“That can’t be true always,” Yuuri pressed on, “Phichit, please, tell my why you’re saying that.”

“That’s just what I’ve learned,” Phichit said, feigning nonchalance. Yuuri recognized this point - they’d be talking, and Yuuri would touch uncomfortably close to Phichit’s past, and Phichit would shut down. Before, before Yuuri wouldn’t have bothered trying to push further, but the Phichit he’d known yesterday was not the Phichit standing in front of him, glowing and solemn in the lamplight.

“Please, talk to me,” Yuuri insisted.

Phichit pressed his lips together and said, "I'll tell you more about the plan. But please, Yuuri, don't ask me any more about this."  

Yuuri shuddered, closing his eyes.

“Does he want you to go back?” came Phichit’s voice, changing the subject so blatantly that Yuuri decided to drop it. Yuuri opened his eyes to find Phichit closer to him, hand reaching out, asking permission to touch, to give him comfort. He turned his head, a subtle refusal, and he wondered why that familiar kind touch seemed nauseating now.

Yuuri nodded. “It was barely anything,” he murmured, “I think he’s taking it slow.”

Phichit nodded sadly, maybe a little frustrated. Yuuri wondered how  _ his _ treatment had been. The thought slowly occurred to him how miserable the past little bit must’ve been for his friend, and despite his frustration with Phichit’s secrecy and the awful upheaval in his life, he felt a pang in his heart and he longed to provide the older-friend comfort Phichit sometimes asked him for.

Phichit was young, and he’d barely started sleeping with Yuuri about a year ago - the constant need to please Celestino and keep his secret must’ve taken a toll. Instead of letting Phichit hug him, because his skin felt itchy and hot and gross, he gripped Phichit’s hand and squeezed it.

Yuuri searched for something, desperate to change the subject. “How do you recruit people? How do I convince Victor?”

Phichit squeezed his hand gratefully, and Yuuri found his heart panging for their earlier easy camaraderie. “It helps if they have a personal investment, so you have one advantage. Like I said earlier, Otabek knows someone who was sold off as a debt-slave.”

“Mm,” Yuuri murmured, heart aching. That didn’t help - he was shy, tentative, not the revolutionary type. He just knew he’d do anything for Victor.

“You met him, actually,” Phichit said, nonchalant, “The little blonde one.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened.  _ Yuri _ ? “Yes, I… I’ve seen him a few times, now.”

“How is he?” Phichit inquired, a pointed edge to his voice.

Yuuri shook his head, remembering the furious, icy glance Yuri had shot him. “Not good,” he admitted. “It’s been really hard for him. He seemed to really care about Victor, and now that he’s gone… Are you going to tell Otabek?”

Phichit bit his lip. “I don’t think so. It won’t… It won’t help him. And they’ll be together again soon enough.”

Yuuri nodded, then an idea occurred to him. “Phichit,” he said, “We have the money - or, well, you have the money, because you didn’t spend it like an  _ idiot _ … Why not just pay off his debts and buy him? We’ll still have our plan.”

Phichit winced. “Please don’t hate me, Yuuri.”

Yuuri cocked his head, confused.

“If we do, Otabek might lose interest. Without him, we lose half of our forces in the working class neighborhoods,” Phichit explained. Then, at Yuuri’s expression, quickly hurried on, “Don’t look at me like that! I want them to be together. They  _ will _ be together, but if Yuri needs to wait a little longer so  _ every _ debt-slave can be free…”

Yuuri shook his head and wrenched his hand away, realizing with horror how little he truly knew about his closest friend.

“Who  _ are _ you?” he asked, voice shaking.

Phichit shook his head, eyes shimmering sadly. “I’m your  _ friend _ , Yuuri - even if you don’t believe it.”

Yuuri grasped at his hair, realizing that Phichit couldn’t comfort him like he used to. He was set to sleep next to Celestino, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep, and he was terrified of everyone he’d once been close with. He wanted to throw up.

“Being close to someone can help,” Phichit murmured, and Yuuri looked up when he heard the tremble in his voice. There were tears in his eyes, his hands in fists by his side. “It can remind you why you’re doing something like this. It can also hurt, though - if you love someone, that person can be used against you. It’s better… It’s better not to care. Sometimes you can’t help it, though.”

Yuuri swallowed. He didn’t want to listen to any more of this, but the only place he could escape to was Celestino’s bed.

It had been a few minutes, he supposed, and things would be worse if Celestino came knocking. It was hard to breathe. He shot a spasm of a smile at Phichit, who gazed back at him sadly.

The sound of running water flowed over Yuuri’s ears as he sunk into Celestino’s now-clean bed, mind still whirling the deeper he got into this with Phichit. A bath, then. Yuuri steeled himself for the  _ pop _ of the tub being emptied, and realized-

His gaze slid to the carved black desk in the corner of the room. The water still ran, and after a mere moment’s hesitation, he leapt out of bed and began to carefully rifle though the drawers. Bills, economic legislation - damn, he should’ve asked Phichit for what to look for.

One thing caught his eye, though.  _ On the Increase of Military Presence to Quell Revolts _ . He bit his lip - that didn’t seem good, especially with Otabek already a wanted man. The water stopped flowing. Celestino was in the bath, now, but there would be a few good minutes before he drained the tub and came out.

Yuuri glanced around the room quickly and began to read.

* * *

That night, Yuuri curled up on a plush bed, curtains drawn around it, Celestino minding his distance. It was amazing, the relief he felt at that. In the span of less than a day, he’d gone from not intending to sleep with Celestino at all to  _ grateful _ Celestino was giving him an inch of space after all but fucking him and forcing him to share his bed at night.

“Yuuri,” Celestino murmured, breath making the hairs on the back of Yuuri’s neck prickle unpleasantly, “Do you remember how Minako died?”

Something unpleasant churned in Yuuri’s gut. Minako, his beloved Minako, unwittingly sending him into the lion’s den. She never would have picked Celestino if she’d known it would end like this, he knew, and he ached for lack of her guidance now.

“No,” he murmured, not turning his face.

Celestino shifted behind him, still not touching. “That horrible disease - it’s a rot that chews you up from the inside out. You get it,” he said, punctuating this part pointedly, “from sleeping around.”

“So what,” Yuuri murmured, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, still not facing Celestino. “She was still a good person. I knew she’d been sick, but why are you telling me this now?”

“Diseases affect people who spend their lives sleeping with dozens of men and women,” Celestino responded, sounding a little annoyed, “It’s safer if you don’t get attached to people like that. I truly cared for Minako, and then she died and left us both heartbroken. They all do, eventually.”

A dozen thoughts crossed his mind rapidfire, from  _ don’t pretend you’re doing this altruistically _ to  _ how dare you imply Victor is diseased  _ to  _ even if he is, it’s not his fault. _

Mostly, though, Yuuri realized that he had never hated another person as much as he hated Celestino in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure how you'll receive Phichit in this chapter... I definitely want to write him as having a good heart (and a ~mysterious tragic backstory~), but I do want to add some shades of gray to his character as well. I DON'T want you all to hate him for leaving Yuri behind (for now) and other things, so let me know how you're feelin about his character. 
> 
> Also, you'll definitely be seeing Otabek again. Otayuri is endgame too (though it won't be as much at the forefront as the Victuuri), but up till now it was waaaay too subtle for me to justify tagging it. I'll probably update the work to reflect recent developments after the next chapters.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor POV! I hope it's what you were hoping for. You also see King JJ more in this chapter, and get to see him through Victor's eyes. 
> 
> Content warnings in this chapter include Victor's awful mental state, which includes some thoughts of suicide.

Victor was…

Victor was  _ bored _ .

Once the heartache, the misunderstanding, the betrayal had dulled to a low throb that stiffened all of his movements, he’d sunk into the easy blank-headedness of his role.

And anyway, the elder Cialdini had been the one to sell him, and Yuuri’s face that day in court had been agonizingly sad. He hadn’t wanted this, Victor knew, but it was too late now. He’d been stupid to hope.

It wasn’t like the first time - why wasn’t it like that? Victor had prepared for the soul-piercing agony to grip him, wrap around his beating heart and squeeze until it burst like a berry. Instead, there was nothing left but aching  _ numb _ , a hollow cavity in his chest that echoed with things that might’ve been feelings at one point.

Yuuri was gone, and Victor was a walking corpse. Maybe it was good, then, that this had happened - how was he supposed to entertain the thought of a life with someone he couldn’t even muster up any sadness about leaving?

He’d felt like crying at how disappointed Yuuri would be at his spiralling, negative thoughts. His hands ghosted over his throat, remembering the choking pressure as his childhood master tried in vain to squeeze the breath out of him. Why couldn’t his life have ended then? He would have had three lovely, happy years with Yuuri and died feeling like he’d done something, daring to love someone he wasn’t supposed to.

_ “Yuuri, I’m sorry, I know my place now and I won’t ever try to change it again-” _

Oh,  _ god _ . Victor gasped in the middle of court as he remembered that horrible fight they’d had as kids. The king looked at him, and he tried to mask it in an easy, dull stare, but something had  _ pierced _  him and he gripped his chest because it felt so physically painful.

Yuuri had tried to assure him that they should be equals. They’d fought because Victor had thought he either needed to own Yuuri or be owned by him, because that was all he knew of relationships, and it had been  _ magical _  to finally learn there was another option.

He’d failed, though, Victor failed even though he’d tried to understand.

_ I’m sorry, Yuuri,  _ he thought _ , I know my place, and no matter what happens, it’ll never change _ .

There Yuuri was, in the back, trying so hard not to stare at him because Celestino kept his eyes on him at all times. Guilt, the first emotion he’d felt since coming to the king, clawed at his chest.

Victor could hardly breathe.

* * *

He’d imagined that the king would take him immediately, possibly in the middle of court, but instead he’d just told him to dance. Then, that evening, Victor waited with agonizing fear for whatever tools the royal son had in his arsenal - and waited in vain, sweating under silk sheets the entire night.

It was the same the next day. A dance in court, alone to shiver in anticipation during the night.

By the fifth night, he was able to sleep, albeit fitfully - and now a week later, he was out each night before his head hit the pillow, though his bad dreams still lingered.

There was even a rare, precious moment of satisfaction - Victor had been dancing before the king, before the court, when he’d noticed a familiar face in the back. The Count, staring at him with a desire that only matched by Yuuri in intensity.

For a brief, terrifying moment, he’d frozen, stumbling and falling to his knees on the cold floor. For the first time, King JJ turned to look at him, and he frowned.

“Did you hurt your ankle?” he’d asked.

“No,” Victor responded, standing again, quickly, “No, no, no, it’s nothing.”

And, strangely enough, it had been. The Count was a lower-ranked noble - he couldn’t get close to the king, didn’t have a chance. Victor would look over to where he was, sometimes, and watch the burning hatred in the Count’s eyes as he danced for a drooling court, so different from the pained longing in Yuuri’s.

There was a time he’d seen two paths for his life - go live with the Count, or go live with Yuuri. One was unimaginable torture, the other unimaginable bliss. Of course, he could never predict what would happen to him, and he never had a hand in the decisions.

Really, it shouldn’t have been a disappointment by now that he’d been patient and polite and everything he was supposed to be and what he wanted  _ still _  didn’t matter. It must be so easy, he thought bitterly, to work with people whose wants didn’t matter. The couch didn’t complain when it was moved to another room.

This path, one chosen for him by jealousy and greed, was the mix of torture and bliss his last job at the Ice Castle had been.

He’d never had a bed so comfortable, a room so spacious. The slaves’ quarters were a luscious step up from even his nicer room at the Ice Castle. His bed was  _ raised  _ above the  _ floor _ , the sheets thick and soft. The communal bath the slaves shared were gleaming white and gold, and the water ran hot. They were pretty gilded statues, well cared for pets, but no one seemed particularly happy here.

Victor supposed he couldn’t blame them.

The king’s arsenal of slaves was large and ranged from big, brutish throne bearers to slender, long-haired pleasurers. They were dark and sun-kissed from the eastern provinces, or white from skin to hair like him. The one trait they all shared, though, was a complete unease. Victor constantly had the feeling he’d entered into a conversation at precisely the wrong moment.

He couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with their seeming lack of use - when he was much younger, Victor would have killed for a master who didn’t seem to want to touch him. He was too old now, though, too used to it - and a lack of attention could be worse than too much.

“Since the old king and queen died, the king hasn’t touched any of us,” one of the slaves explained to him as they were relaxing in the bathroom one lazy evening. “Well, he never did before, either, but I mean the  _ king _  hasn’t touched us. Says that wouldn’t be fair to his fiance, but I know that’s just an excuse.”

“It’s like we don’t exist to him,” another chimed in, “I’m worried. He announced once that the nobles can come in here whenever they want, since he has no interest, and that’s fine for now, but what if he decides to sell us off? My old master, god, I’d sooner die than go back to a man like him.”

Victor bit his lip. He’d been visited by multiple men since his time here, as many nobles decided to seek their fortunes among the royal pleasure-slaves with the king’s back turned, but it was nothing like what he’d expected.

When it was a choice between Yuuri and the Count, Victor knew that if Yuuri couldn’t claim him, he’d need to kill himself. There was no way to endure what the Count put him through - he still woke up, tangled in plush bedsheets, swallowing down screams at the feel of the prod inside of him.

Now that the choice had been made, and it wasn’t Yuuri, but it was a soft bed and gilded hallways…

Well, he still kind of wanted to die. Victor was  _ tired _ . Twenty seven years of near-constant abuse and then believing that some silly noble could save him, only to have both his freedom and his love ripped away-

He’d lost everyone. What was really the  _ point _ ?

“Hey, new guy, feel like cleaning me out with that pump? Just in case.”

Victor shook his head. He was slipping away again. He smiled at the slave next to him - he didn’t bother to learn anyone’s names, it wasn’t like he’d be around long anyway - and said  _ sure _ .

* * *

Sometimes, he wondered what Yuri was doing. Was he still at the Ice Castle, clawing his skin off in the cold bath, crying before his shifts? What would the others do - would Yakov have him beaten, like Victor had been all those years ago?

Would he break? Would  _ he _  want to die?

The only thing he felt anymore was awful, clawing guilt about his young friend. That, and the soul-sucking pain at losing Yuuri - pain that pounded in his chest, pulling him like cold water from what should’ve been a peaceful sleep.

So much for being numb, he thought bitterly. It came and went, tossing him from hot pain to icy numbness in the blink of an eye. It wasn't as bad as the first time, but that meant very little. And when he woke from it, he'd remember the pain of losing Yuuri when he was young, and it wrapped around him like a vice.

Didn’t he at least deserve to  _ sleep _ ?

Victor hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

* * *

When the king did want him, it was seemingly just to chat. Victor sat beside his throne, robes hanging tantalizing off his shoulder, staring up at him with deep admiration. Or, at least attempting to - were all royals this bone-headed?

King JJ loved his fiance, loved his kingdom, and really wanted to be seen as great in the eyes of both. He knew his father, the senior King Alain, was called Alain the Great - through expansion of the empire and bold new trading policies.

Victor knew King Alain well - knew and didn’t like him, not that it mattered what slaves thought about kingdom politics.

King JJ, on the other hand, was young, a fresh face - a little too fresh, a little too green when dealing with the green-eyed nobles who all wanted a shot at the throne and were frustrated when it was determined that the king’s sixteen year old son was old enough to rule.

“I miss my father, you know?” King JJ sniffed to him one day, privately. “He was a great ruler, a great man. I know they all want him back, but I want to rule the kingdom with my own JJ style.”

Victor didn’t respond.

“Do you have a family?” King JJ asked.

Victor would not have been able to swallow down his reaction if he hadn’t had decades of practice. He was sure King JJ was asking out of a genuine curiosity - somehow that made it worse. Victor shook his head, carefully lowering his gaze.

King JJ made a sad noise. “I’m sorry. I don’t either.”

_ I know,  _ Victor thought,  _ There was a week of mourning when your parents died. Because your father was the  _ king.

“What happened to yours?”

Victor grit his teeth, aware that it was suicide to ignore a direct question from his master. If he was going to kill himself, it would be a beautiful death, spread out on his silken sheets and his hair done up prettily behind him, capturing a glamor that no one had truly allowed him in life - so he needed to answer. There was no reason to lie, so he ground out. “There was a raid, long ago. My mother was killed and I was taken to the mainland.”

“A raid,” King JJ gasped out, “What for?”

_ Just fucking because _ , Victor snarled inwardly. He kept his expression carefully neutral, though, and shrugged.

“Of course, I shouldn’t expect you to know such things,” King JJ smiled condescendingly, patting Victor on the head. “Probably some tribal squabble, or a bandit attack.”

Victor wanted to scream.

Long ago, when he and Yuuri lived together, Yuuri had snuck Victor into the library. Yuuri had wanted to read a mystery, a bodice-ripper romance of the sort his guardian loved, but Victor had headed hungrily towards the history section. He was homesick, he wanted to know about the land he came from - and what he got was a catalog of slaughter.

_ It was your father _ , Victor thought, but his eyelashes never left the floor and his face barely even twitched.

“I wouldn’t presume to know anything about this land,” Victor murmured.

At that, a group of nobles curled around JJ, and Victor recognized the elder Cialdini among them. He wondered what had driven Cialdini to steal him away from Yuuri, briefly, and his tongue ached to ask.

Someone Victor didn’t recognize put a ring-clad hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles into his exposed flesh with his thumb.

“Mind if I take this off your hands?” the man joked.

The King looked through Victor like he hadn’t been speaking to him mere moments ago. “Oh, yes - he’s all yours.”

Victor expected to be taken to a private room, as he had before, but this noble merely slipped him into a darker corner to the chamber and shoved his ringed fingers inside. Victor arched up, masking his pain with a feigned gasp of pleasure. The golden, jeweled rings scraped against his insides, even with the slick oil the noble had slathered onto his hands.

The noble pressed him up against the wall and kissed him roughly, lifting his leg to wrap it around his waist. Victor moaned into the touches, grinding his hips against the nobleman’s crotch, and gasped in relief when the ring-clad fingers popped out of him.

A dribble of oil slid down his thigh and Victor barely even felt it as the noble slid into him. He was  _ strong _ , lifting both of Victor’s legs up to thrust into him against the wall. In between thrusts, Victor caught snippets of their conversation.

“Production in the northern territories is down twenty-five percent, I think we should send in troops-”

“That’s a waste of military men, I think-”

“You still have much to learn, my King, perhaps if you let us-”

Victor’s eyes fluttered open at the feeling of fingers inside of him as well, just enough to burn. The King looked frustrated, even moreso than the nobles surrounding him - Victor could sense the subtle power-play of the interaction.

Lord Cialdini seemed to be looking at him, at his sweat-slick hair and flushed cheeks, and for the first time in a long time Victor felt shame. He wanted the man inside him to  _ stop _ , if only to preserve his dignity. Would the lord tell his Yuuri about how he moaned for some noble, pressed against the wall in front of him?

“Want a turn of your own?” One of the nobles teased Lord Cialdini, noticing his gaze.

Victor’s blood ran cold. There was something cold, calculating in his words, in the cruel twinkle of his gaze. The noble finished inside him, sticky and gross, and dropped him, unceremoniously, onto the marble floor.

He trembled there, on his hands and knees, surrounded by the nobility and feeling very small, very exposed. He clenched his body, afraid that if he didn't it would all come leaking out of him and they'd make him clean it up, all in front of Yuuri's caretaker. Victor couldn’t bring himself to cover back up with the flimsy, meager scrap of fabric they called a robe.

Cialdini wrinkled his nose, and Victor didn’t know whether it was him or the noble on the receiving end of that cold contempt. “Unlike some, I don’t need to use slaves to get off.”

Cialdini’s eyes slid to Victor for just a moment. There was a chorus of mock-anger.

Victor noticed the King did not join in.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings this chapter for discussion of child sexual abuse. As with the last time, it's just going to be in lines of dialogue, but I still want to warn you any time it comes up. 
> 
> I'm gonna include some rambly thoughts about JJ's character at the end of the chapter. He's a little more morally gray in this chapter, though I'm not going to make him into some kind of some awful rapist, so you don't need to worry about that. 
> 
> Also, I'm unfortunately going to need to take a bit of a break from posting after I get this chapter out. :( I'm moving cross country and also starting a new job, so I won't have the same time to write and edit. Plus, I like to write a few chapters at a time because I often have ~ideas~ for older chapters with developments in later ones. I don't have a good idea of exactly how long it'll be till the next chapter, but it might... Be a while... I'm sorry! I won't give up on this fic, don't you worry. I'll be around (aka on tumblr sometimes) so you can get updates there if you need em. 
> 
> (Speaking of changes from later developments, I might go back and change Chris' role. He's such a minor character that it shouldn't be too jarring, but I recently had a cool idea for what to do with him later on.)

Another sleepless night loomed over him. Victor still felt some shame at how Lord Cialdini had stared at him, splitting him open with icy eyes.

_ He _  didn’t have romantic illusions about who Victor was. Victor was a pleasure slave - good for fucking and not much else.

The door to his room creaked open and Victor wondered which noble wanted a turn this time.

The room was illuminated by soft orange light, and Victor jolted up. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and brought his blanket up to cover the red marks on his chest, just in case the figure before him was real.

“I don’t have much time,” Yuuri whispered, placing the lamp down on Victor’s desk.

“How do I know you’re real?” Victor hissed, “How do I know I’m not just insane?”

Yuuri rushed forward and kissed him, cupping his cheeks to tilt his head up. Victor relished the soft pink of his lips, the lap of his tongue.

“It’s me,” Yuuri assured him, eyes tearing up, “It’s me, and I’m so, so sorry.”

Victor held his arms wide open, finding it unbearable to see his Yuuri cry, desperate to touch the figure before him. “Shh, shh. I’m here. Yuuri - what  _ happened _ ?”

Yuuri shook his head as he nestled into Victor’s arms. “Gods, it’s awful. I… Celestino got jealous. He’s just doing this to keep you away from me. I never… I never thought…”

Victor ached. He kissed Yuuri’s forehead, breathed in the scent from his hair.

He blinked, suddenly.

There was a dark spot on Yuuri’s collarbone, a spot Victor would recognize anywhere. He reached out to touch it, cocking his head to the side, but Yuuri grasped his hand before he could.

Yuuri’s eyes were terrified, his cheeks flushed with shame. “There’s only you, this is-”

He cut himself off, and Victor tried to swallow the twinge of jealousy. It didn’t matter. Sex didn’t have to mean anything, so maybe…

Yuuri looked ready to panic, so Victor kissed him, slow and steady.

“It’s alright,” Victor whispered, smiling wistfully. “I can’t expect all of your attention all the time.”

“You have it, though,” Yuuri said, voice breaking off into a sob.

Victor frowned. “Yuuri,” he murmured, “Is everything okay?”

Yuuri seemed to hesitate, but he calmed himself with a deep breath and nodded. “I miss you,” he admitted, gripping at his chest to quiet the beating of his heart.

Victor wanted to cry. He missed him too, so desperately he thought the pain would split him in two.

“What now?” He asked, everything foggy. Victor didn’t know why he asked - a part of him didn’t want to know. Was there anything, now? Would there ever be?

Yuuri bit his lip and buried himself in Victor’s arms. “Phichit has a plan. I don’t know all the details, he won’t tell me, but you can help us.”

Victor raised his eyebrows.

“You can help us by… By…” Yuuri couldn’t seem to finish the thought. “Phichit wants us to end slavery everywhere. We need… In order for that to happen, we can’t have a king. It would be easy… Quick…”

“You want me,” Victor said slowly, “To kill the king?”

Yuuri’s silence was all the confirmation he needed.

“Oh god,” Victor gasped out, “Yuuri, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“It’s the only way for us to be together,” Yuuri mumbled, miserably.

“What happens after I kill him?” Victor hissed, “They’ll send the entire military after us. There’ll be nowhere safe for us to hide.”

“Phichit said-”

“Phichit has no idea what he’s talking about,” Victor snapped, voice harsher than he intended it to be. “Yuuri, I’ve  _ seen _  what they do to people who speak out. When I was a kid, they… They destroyed my entire village, killed or sold off everyone, just because we had a town meeting. Just because we wanted things to be better.”

Yuuri gasped, tears spilling from his eyes. Victor flushed, embarrassed that he’d been driven to talk about his past. It always seemed to come back to haunt him at the worst times, even so many years later.

“There’s no army in the world that can stand up to the king,” Victor murmured, aching. “Do you really think that if he’s gone, all our problems go away?”

“We’ll run off then,” Yuuri sniffled, “Run away with me, right now. We can slip out the same way I got in.”

Victor shook his head, the memories of tortured runaways in the back of his mind. The way the dogs would bark, starved half to death, before they were let loose on the recaptured.

“It’ll never work,” he murmured, closing his eyes, as though in pain. “Nothing will ever work.”

“Vitya…” Yuuri’s voice was soft, pleading. “Please.”

The nickname pierced Victor, and he sucked in a breath, eyes flying open. For the first time, his age weighed on him - they weren’t children anymore, something he’d known acutely, but had never hurt him so much.

Yuuri’s hands shook, his eyes held an awful desperation, like he was clinging desperately to a ghost.

Victor realized with a cold jolt that he’d never expected to live this long.

As he’d gotten older, as Yuuri had slipped away from him, he’d stopped imagining a future for himself, and now it felt far too late to think up a new one.

“You should give up on me,” Victor murmured, voice devoid of emotion.

“I  _ won’t _ ,” Yuuri snapped, sharp enough to pull Victor out of his own head. “I won’t. You mean  _ everything _  to me.”

“How can I mean everything to you?” Victor snarled in return, “You don’t even know who I am, not really - maybe once when we were kids, but I’m different now. There’s nothing left of me, Yuuri, there’s  _ nothing left _ .”

It was a little like when he’d shouted at Yuri - a bottled up anguish erupting out of him, unbidden. Yuuri looked dead-set on arguing, so Victor cut him off.

“Anything I could’ve given you, it’s gone,” Victor shouted, “We used to dance, but now I can barely spend the day walking, my legs hurt so much. I can’t tell you stories because they took me away from my home and now I’ve told you single story I know, and there aren’t any left. I can’t, god, I can’t even  _ fuck _  you, and that’s all I’ve ever been good for.”

He let out a hollow laugh and continued, “I thought I liked it, or at least tolerated it, but my back hurts and my legs ache, and everyone’s hands are so  _ cold _  when they touch me. I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy it, even with you.” Victor locked eyes with Yuuri and said, cruelly, “I don’t think I ever  _ did  _ enjoy it, even with you.”

The silence that followed was thicker than a noose. Victor expected Yuuri to run out at that. With his cruel words, he’d tainted their precious childhood memories - an unforgivable, cardinal sin.

Yuuri cracked open. He let out a low sob and leaned over, burying his head in his hands as he began to cry in earnest. Victor expected to be hit. He  _ wanted _  to be hit, because it would hurt less than the sight of Yuuri weeping in front of him.

“Yuuri,” he whispered, a vice-like constriction around his heart. This wasn’t what he wanted, he’d take it back - oh, god, what if Yuuri left him? Hadn’t he said that so Yuuri would leave him? A moment of cruel vindication, just like that fight all those years ago, sharp and biting as his body stung with the master’s whip and teeth.

He’d been so alone afterward, terrified, with churning gut and terror gripping him and hands a numb, shaking kind of cold.

Suddenly, horror hit him, and he realized he’d been wrong - _  no _ , he pleaded, the words sticking like molasses in his throat,  _ no, no Yuuri, don’t leave me, don’t leave me with him _ -

“I know you didn’t like it, not really,” Yuuri sobbed, and Victor’s heart stuttered and all but stopped.

_ What _ ?

“I didn’t then, but I knew later, when I thought about it. Victor, you were  _ twelve _  - how could you like  _ anything _  at that age?”

“What?” Victor repeated, out loud this time.

Yuuri took a deep, shuddering breath, and fixed Victor with an intense, red-rimmed stare. “I know… I know kids can be curious, but we were so young. And doing  _ that _  with an adult at that age? What kind of adult is so sick? What he did to you, of course you can’t enjoy it. It was, gods, Victor, it was-”

Panic rose in Victor’s chest as he saw where Yuuri was going. “Wait, wait, don’t-”

“It was-”

_ “Don’t say that to me, Yuuri!” _

Victor hadn’t realized he’d gripped Yuuri’s hands until Yuuri gasped out in pain, and he stared down at the white-knuckled grasp, the trembling down to his bones.

“Why did you try to say that?” Victor moaned in terror, “Why would you… Oh god, oh  _ god- _ ”

It had been just enough, just close enough to make Victor  _ think _ . It was like prodding at a sack full of water, the smallest prick and everything would start spilling out. Hot, wet tears welled up at the corners of Victor’s eyes and he let them fall, let them drip silently off his silver eyelashes and down his cheeks. It had been so long since he’d properly cried, and he didn’t know what to do - his hands fidgeted, restlessly, in his lap.

When Yuuri pulled him into his arms, Victor barely moved, just cried into Yuuri’s shoulder as he processed what he’d just said.

“Victor, Victor,” Yuuri cried, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry, I just wanted… I wanted, I’m so sorry-”

It felt like he’d been ripped open, the aching, bloody beating of his heart as he remembered snippets, bits and pieces of his childhood. It had been so  _ easy _  to hide behind the fog, the apathetic numbness - a defense mechanism developed over the years because he’d forgotten how much this  _ hurt _ .

“I don’t want them to hurt you anymore,” Yuuri pleaded, “I wanted you to know that it was okay that you’re not okay with what they’re doing to you - what they did to you - because it  _ was a crime _ .”

Victor hid his head in Yuuri’s shoulder and cried harder, body shaking with the weight of his sadness.

“I need to be okay with it,” Victor sobbed, “I need to be, because if I’m not, it’ll kill me, Yuuri. But I can’t, not anymore, it’s been so,  _ so _  long.”

“I just didn’t want you to be ashamed that you didn’t like it, when we were young,” Yuuri insisted. He sighed, then, gripping Victor’s soft robe in his hands as though he could feel every thread, feel each inch of Victor’s skin underneath. “ _ You  _ were young. We should have been playing outside, running around, being kids. They took that from you.”

“And what makes you think I’ll get that, or anything else, back?” Victor said, dully. “What makes you think killing the king will help me?”

Yuuri bit his lip, face pale but determined. “It’ll mean no one can tell you what to do again. You can focus on feeling better. I don’t… I don’t know what Phichit plans to do with him gone. I was stupid, I should’ve thought he had some bigger idea that I could tell you instead of, fuck, instead of telling you to commit  _ murder _ . I just wanted to see you again, so I told him I’d try to convince you…”

“What if,” Victor said, with a faraway look in his eyes, “What if I never feel better? What if I never sleep with anyone again?”

“Would you like that?” Yuuri asked.

Victor didn’t answer, and he didn’t meet Yuuri’s gaze.

“It doesn’t matter if you’ll never like it,” Yuuri hissed, though Victor could understand the anger wasn’t directed at him, “ _ They _  were wrong, not you. Never you. I don’t need you to sleep with me. I just want you, whatever you’ll give me.”

_ I have nothing to give you _  slithered out from a dark corner of his mind, familiarly cruel. Victor clung to Yuuri and buried his face in his shoulder, breathing in his warmth.

“We’ll find something new for you to like. Ice cream, or reading, or teaching me how to braid your hair in all sorts of beautiful styles.”

Victor let out a laugh that choked off into a sob. Despite everything, he wanted. Oh, how he wanted. It was almost cruel, the vice-like desire to live with Yuuri, to love Yuuri freely with everything he had.

“Vitya, I…” Yuuri took a deep, shuddering breath, hand warm on Victor’s back, “I’m going to do this, follow Phichit’s plan. I’m working with people, and we’re going to try this. I don’t know if it’ll work, but don’t think it’s too late for us.”

Victor closed his eyes, heart thumping like a drumbeat in his chest. “Give me some time to think about it. I’m tired, Yuuri, I’m so tired.”

Yuuri nodded sadly, and he kissed Victor’s cheek, his lips, with reverence. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

There was a pregnant pause where both of them realized their time together was ending, at least for now, and that Yuuri couldn’t assure him he’d be back anytime soon. Yuuri’s arms were still wrapped, warm and firm, around Victor, gripping him like he wanted an imprint pressed into his chest while they were apart.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmured.

“Mm?”

“Why didn’t you leave? Why didn’t you believe I was done with you?”

Yuuri smiled, softly, and linked his hand with Victor’s, bringing it up into the light.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he whispered, and Victor’s heart broke all over again for the life they could’ve shared together. Yuuri kissed his finger where the ring still glinted, golden and mocking. “I’ll be back, okay? Please, please don’t give up. I love you, Vitya.”

Victor smiled, sadly, and tried to assure him that he wouldn’t - but found the words wouldn’t come out. Knowing what had happened to him was inhumane didn’t do much for his position, for his possible life with Yuuri, when there was nothing he could do about it.

“I love you, Yuuri,” he whispered, voice cracked.

Eventually, Yuuri left, kissing Victor so deeply he worried for a moment that he would get lost in it. In the coldness of the night, curled up under blankets that brought none of Yuuri’s warmth back to him, Victor found his mind wandering to places he’d never been before, drawing him into a fitful sleep.

* * *

 

His conversations with the king stuck with him, long after they were done. He didn’t know quite what to make of him, of his thoughts and opinions and way of seeing the world. Their stations were so different that Victor didn’t think he’d ever truly understand how King JJ thought. Late at night, he’d pore over a conversation they’d had, trying to make sense of it, trying to puzzle through the strange callousness, the surprising warmth.

Most days, he was put to work like a domestic worker, being asked to re-fill the hot coals underneath the bed, dressing King JJ in particularly complex outfits. King JJ complimented how deftly he laced up his boots, his steady hands. Victor nodded, bemused.

King JJ talked to him often, or at least talked at him. Victor saw the layout of court, saw JJ’s loneliness - why else would he ever talk to a slave like Victor? Victor could empathize a little with having no one, with the longing ache in his chest for someone to talk to, but the difference was in power. If he got angry, there was nothing he could do. If King JJ got angry, he could say the word and somewhere across the world an entire village, an entire city could pay the price for it.

“They gave you to me to make fun of me,” King JJ sniffed, once, as though if was Victor’s fault.

Victor said nothing.

“I don’t… I don’t know why. They claim you were a wedding present, but I doubt they intended me to practice the bedroom arts on you. After all, I’m getting married to a woman.”

Victor knew now that the nobles clearly didn’t respect his authority. That seemed, to him, the strangest thing about court - King JJ could just kill them, he imagined. And yet, he let them keep working, keep arguing.

Not that it mattered to Victor. He’d barely noticed the shift in kings - one night, King Alain was on the throne, the next King JJ had scheduled his coronation. Victor worked long hours at the Ice Castle both nights, bandaged himself up alone afterwards.

“My father had set aside a slave for me, you know,” King JJ said, nonchalantly. “We grew up together. He intended for her to take my virginity the night I turned seventeen. Have you ever been bought to take someone’s virginity?”

“A few times,” Victor shrugged, hesitant as the conversation teetered on the edge of safe territory for him to speak of, “Sometimes nobles would bring their sons to me, intending that I would do just that.”

King JJ wrinkled his nose. “It’s an antiquated custom. I never much liked the idea.”

Victor hadn’t noticed a female slave anywhere near King JJ. It was a bit of a leap of faith, but he dared to ask, “Did she ever…?”

King JJ shook his head. “Once my father died I told her I didn’t want that from her, but a good friend of my father, just as old fashioned as him, had just lost his daughter’s slave to the pox. I offered her, and the noble thought it was a fine idea.”

Victor’s heart seized in his chest.

“She seemed upset,” King JJ said, frowning like he was trying to puzzle something out. “She wouldn’t stop crying. I tried to ask what was wrong, but she said everything was fine. I just… I figured, she should be with someone who actually would put her to use.”

Victor closed his eyes to steady the bleak panging of his heart.  _ It wasn’t the position _ , he thought, sadly,  _ It was you. She grew up with you, she trusted you _ .

He ached for the poor, lonely slave that King JJ had before. He ached that King JJ hadn’t even realized why sending her away might’ve been upsetting, because he’d never considered she could have emotions and thoughts and her own need for affection. He’d heard a few stories from slaves at the Ice Castle who had fallen for a supposedly kind master, only to learn the hard way how foolish it was.

But then, wasn’t he foolish as well? At least Yuuri had tried to free him.

“Now you look upset,” King JJ said, frustrated. “What’s wrong? I’m not going to sell you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Victor shook his head and lapsed back into his normal silence.

“Why won’t any of you tell me what’s wrong?” King JJ snapped.

Somehow, his desperate ignorance hurt more. Victor had known masters who were cruel, and there was some sick comfort in consistently knowing he could hate them, however silently. Then, there were those who didn’t realize the cruelty of their actions. Who were kind in between mind-games and disrespect.

_ Don’t you realize that we’re human beings _ , Victor thought, a remnant of some late-night conversation with Minako or Yuuri or someone who seemed to think he was worth more.

The conversation played out in his head again and again, mingling with his fears that Yuuri would leave him, even despite every verbal, aggressive assurance Yuuri had made to the contrary.

He’d left the chamber quickly as King JJ called together another meeting to discuss economics, before the nobles could come in and grab him. Before he left, though, he turned to JJ and murmured under his breath, “Do you think your slave might have loved you?”

King JJ seemed to stiffen, slightly, though Victor couldn’t be sure he’d heard. He left the room, tired and sad, thinking of Yuuri.

It always came back to this. Victor tossed and turned in bed, waking up from vivid dreams of the slave market from so long ago, so angry that men could be so cruel without even intending to be. He felt like a couch, like furniture, and it was a bitter pill to swallow that very few people could see him beyond that. 

And that those who did would be forced away from him by those who didn’t.

* * *

 

In the dark of the very early morning, the door creaked open, gently, and Victor groaned at the sound, sitting up delicately as sleep slipped away from him with a practiced ease. Another noble come to take his turn? They usually came around in the evenings, not this late into the night.

A boy with thick, dark eyebrows and darker circles under his eyes sat, cheerily, on the bed, and Victor smiled at him softly, tossing a flirtatious wink in his direction. It felt fake, even to him, especially after the draining conversation he’d had a few hours ago.

“What brings you to my chambers,” Victor purred half-heartedly.

“You don’t need to do that with me,” the boy sniffed, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He had a young face, older than Yuri but younger than Yuuri, but his eyes held a dullness that seemed to age him. “I’m Phichit, a friend of Yuuri’s. If you need proof, he has a birthmark on the inside of his little toe.”

Victor’s smile broke immediately, wondering how Phichit knew that, and he eyed Phichit suspiciously. “He mentioned you. You’re the one planning this whole big revolt.”

Phichit nodded. He didn’t have the sort of swagger Victor expected of him, just a quiet, cheery determination. It didn’t matter how he was - this was impossible. Unwinnable.

Victor hadn’t realized Phichit was so young. Somehow, that made him angry - a young, idealistic noble’s aide, head full of fluff and big plans and not a shred of common sense. He bit his tongue as more venomous thoughts threatened to spill out.

Phichit shifted, posture softening noticeably. “You want to say more,” he acknowledged.

Victor hesitated, still suspicious.

“Please,” Phichit said, “You can speak freely around me.”

“You got Yuuri involved in treason,” Victor accused. “Yuuri was cared for, he was comfortable, he was probably happy, and now he’s going to throw that all away.”

“Celestino isn’t what he seems,” Phichit said, darkly. “And Yuuri won’t be happy until he’s with you, you must know that by now.”

Victor groaned in frustration, unable to stop the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “ _ Treason _ , Phichit. You don’t know what they’ll do to you - torture, rape, public execution. And when your stupid, idealistic plan fails, I’m going to be right next to the king, watching Yuuri die. How dare you ask me to go through that, how _  dare you! _ ”

It ended in a shout, and Victor froze, shocked at his display of emotion. Phichit looked sympathetic, and he reached his hand out placatingly, but Victor slapped it away. Somehow, Phichit’s self-assuredness made him even angrier.

“I thought he died, once,” Victor hissed, “And it was the worst agony I’d ever felt. He tried to make things better for me, tried to make me feel human, and I truly believed my master killed him for it. Don’t ask me to go through that again.”

“Victor…”

“I  _ know  _ he won’t stop now. He’s too good, too kind, but god - you’re going to kill him, Phichit. But,” Victor snarled, “I suppose he’s just another pawn to you. I know what you nobles are like.”

Phichit looked stricken, and for a moment Victor sat back smugly at breaking through that calm demeanor.

He took a deep breath, though, and responded, “I’ve been planning this for so long. I’ve thought through every bit of this. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have involved Yuuri if I thought we were going to fail. I care about him, I  _ do _ .”

“What makes you think,” Victor said, enunciating every word carefully, “that this is going to end differently than every other attempt someone’s made to save me? Do you think the country that’s never had a slave run away is going to somehow let a revolt happen within its own borders?”

Phichit stilled. “What was that last thing?”

“Never had a slave run away? They’d tell us that at every chance, they’d-”

“It’s a lie.” Phichit’s voice was firm, sharp. “It’s a lie, of course, they wouldn’t tell anyone about it-”

Victor scowled. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because,” Phichit took a deep, steeling breath, “Because, I…”

There was a pause while Victor waited for Phichit to continue, understanding dawning even as Phichit struggled to say it out loud.

“You ran away,” Victor said, breathless with wonder, “You… How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Phichit paused, bit his lip - then slowly pulled his shirt off and turned around. On his back, right on the shoulder blade, was an awful mess of a scar. The lines were raised, bumpy, like someone had hacked away at it with imprecise, painful cuts. Victor reached back to his own shoulder blade, felt at the raised insignia of his former master, branded in a white hot flash so long ago he barely felt the pain anymore.

“I tell people it was an industrial accident,” Phichit murmured, cheeks darkening in something like shame. “I can’t tell anyone anyway, but I wouldn’t if I had the option. I don’t… I don’t like talking about it.”

“I understand,” Victor whispered, running his hand gently over the scar for a moment, eyes wide. “How… How did you do it?”

“I was a child,” Phichit said, voice still so quiet, “My mother, she snuck us away one night, got us to the port just as the sun was coming up. We stowed away on one of the first ships to the mainland.”

Victor paused. “Just because it worked for you, doesn’t mean it’ll work for me.”

“I know of some others, too,” Phichit reassured him. “It wasn’t easy, and I had a lot of help along the way. Let me help you now.”

Victor didn’t speak.

Phichit’s posture softened again, and to Victor it felt almost motherly, the way he rounded his shoulders, made himself as open as possible. “If you can,” Phichit said, “Could you tell me some of the things that happened? To make you think this is impossible? It might… It might help me help you.”

Victor snorted humorlessly, tugging on a strand of hair in his anxiousness. “It doesn’t matter now. It was so long ago.”

“It’s still affecting you,” Phichit murmured, “As it should. Some things still affect me, too.”

Victor opened his mouth to retort, but a pang in his chest stopped him. Thinking back to his past was a strange, unpredictable thing. Yuuri barely beginning to mention it caused a minor breakdown a few hours ago, but now, in the stillness of morning, Victor felt nothing but the aching thump-thump of his heartbeat. It was heavy like lead in his chest.

It was so, so rare that he felt like he could even speak of it without bursting into tears. Victor wondered, he wondered if this was a sign to speak before his tongue twisted in his mouth and his brain shut down. Before he could stop himself, because he couldn’t feel worse than he already did, Victor spoke.

“You know about how I was taken away from Yuuri, I’m sure, when we were little. But before that, too, when I was a kid, something happened,” he said, shortly, before he could convince himself to stop. “I was, ah, I was really little. Eight, I think. There were patrols of kingdom guards that made sure we worked hard, and I had such long hair, and a few of them stopped me just after dark, when I was alone. They, um,” Victor found his throat was dry, and he coughed to clear it. Just like with Yuuri earlier, he froze up before anyone could say it, say that he had been...

He tried again. “They…  _ fuck _ ,” he swore, hands shaking, clenched into fists by his sides. It wouldn’t come out. He sat there, trembling, and when he looked up again he noticed that Phichit had gone white as a sheet. “You know what they did,” Victor whispered, not meeting his eyes.

Phichit nodded, slow-motion, like his head was underwater. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice small and fragile. “I’m not surprised. They’re helpless, kids. They can’t… They don’t know what’s happening until it’s too late…”

Victor blinked at a sudden itchiness in his eyes. “My mother was furious, called together a town meeting, and everyone thought things would  _ finally _  get better.”

If he closed his eyes, Victor could almost remember the warmth of her hands, the soft damp cloth she put over his head while she whispered,  _ wait outside, love, I’ll be right there.  _ If he tried, if he put in an inhuman effort, the warmth of her hands overwhelmed the scent of blood that clogged Victor’s nose and mouth, even decades later choking him in nightmares.

Blood from his own body, hot like fire, and he didn’t know how to stop it from flowing. He needed to try harder, if he blocked all of that away - there she was, soft and gentle like summer rain.

“The next thing I knew, the village was being burned to the ground, and someone was dragging me away towards a wagon full of the other children. Everything smelled like blood and smoke, and I knew my mother was dead, because if she’d been alive she would’ve fought tooth and nail against the man taking me away. Just like she always did. It wasn’t her fault this happened, she tried so hard…”

Phichit’s eyes widened.

“That’s why I’m so sure it won’t work,” Victor whispered, “Because they’ve  _ tried _ . Mama tried to get justice after they hurt me, Yuuri tried to stop my master from abusing me, tried to buy me and take me somewhere nice… And now I’m here, and nothing has changed.”

Phichit bit his lip, as though wondering what to do. Then, he leaned forward and gently wrapped his arms around Victor, pulling him into a loose hug.

It was nice. Phichit was shaking, slightly, and Victor felt that through his shoulders. Victor tightened it, running his thumb gently over the scar on Phichit’s back, because it seemed like Phichit needed this as much as he did.

“I’m sorry, Victor,” Phichit murmured in his ear. “I’m sorry. I know it’s been so long, but know it wasn’t your fault.”

Victor shrugged, swallowing around the lump in his throat. What a stupid thing to say, he thought. Of course it was his fault. If he hadn’t been…

If that hadn’t happened, he’d still be happy, at home with his mother. If he hadn’t told anyone.

No, he realized, that wasn’t true. They’d made it impossible to hide. They were so violently, horrifically  _ cruel  _ that it was impossible for anyone to ignore the aftermath beaten into him, to ignore him, and then they killed everyone for daring to think it was wrong-

_ Choking on a scent, burning like iron. Blood, so much blood, so much blood _ .

And anyway, they’d likely have been forced apart sooner or later.

“I don’t know how I can convince you that this will be different,” Phichit said, close to pleading, “We have more people, it’s not just us, it’s workers as well. But Victor, you don’t deserve this life. There’s something good waiting for you when you’re free.”

_ When you’re free.  _ Phichit was so sure it almost hurt.

“That’s what Yuuri says, too,” Victor sighed. “I’m not a murderer, Phichit.”

“I know you’re not,” Phichit said, “You’re not like  _ them _ .”

Phichit slipped his shirt back on and cast one last glance in Victor’s direction. “Yuuri won’t give up on you,” he said, “so I won’t either.”

He left, then, leaving Victor with an aching heart and the knowledge that some slaves had run away. That some had managed to find freedom for themselves, despite everything.

So, they’d lied to him when they tried to pretend they were all-powerful.

That was an interesting thought.

* * *

 

Victor didn’t sleep much that night, more lost in thought than he’d been when Yuuri had left. He felt  _ drained _ . Twice, in the span of just a few hours, he’d had people probing into the recesses of his worst moments, wondering how to use them to convince him that this  _ revolution _  was worth fighting.

How could he dare, though - if he did try to play a part, if they failed, he’d live the rest of his short, miserable life knowing that it was  _ his _  fault that Yuuri died. Just like his village, all those years ago.

Victor took a moment to project a future where Yuuri stopped working with Phichit now. He’d grow up, inherit from Celestino eventually, and they’d see each other at random intervals when Yuuri snuck in for a night here or there. Eventually, no matter how often Yuuri swore he wouldn’t, he knew Yuuri would grow tired of the instability.

It was hard, really hard, not to think that one day Yuuri would get sick of this and want to find someone who wouldn’t be sold off at a moment’s notice. Someone with less… Baggage. Someone who could please him and wouldn’t wake up screaming later that night because of it.

There was a small, rational part of his brain that realized the lengths to which Yuuri had gone for him already - joining a group of rebels because he’d realized there was absolutely no other way for Victor to get out, for example. That part begged him to understand that Yuuri would do anything for him, that Victor could refuse to help until the day he died and that Yuuri would still do everything in his power to care for him. He’d never stop fighting until they were together and safe.

That part was overshadowed, though, by something more primal, something that remembered everything that had been done to him and rationalized that it was because he’d tried to change. Hadn’t he been lucky, at the Ice Castle, with his meals and his medicine and the Count?

Seeing Yuuri again reminded him of what it meant to have hope. The first time it had been ripped away, when he’d thought Yuuri was dead all those years ago, Victor lost a part of himself that he’d never quite recovered.

Why hadn’t that happened this time? Victor supposed it was because he knew Yuuri was alive. That he cared. If he lost that, if someone took that from him, how was he supposed to recover?

If he knew that Yuuri was putting himself in harm's way and that nothing he could say would stop that, how could he sit back and let Yuuri work alone? He’d much rather die with Yuuri than keep living without him. He could offer himself in Yuuri’s place, if they threatened to torture him. It was nothing he wasn’t used to.

Victor frowned, curling in on himself. He didn’t want to be tortured. He didn’t want to hurt.

But was that really so different than his life now?

* * *

 

King JJ ordered him to perform for the court again, and Victor used the opportunity to scan the crowd for Yuuri. He was by the back, next to Phichit and Celestino - Victor couldn’t let his eyes linger too long, but he caught snapshots of their interactions as he twirled around in his robes.

Phichit and Yuuri, barely touching, not looking at each other.

Celestino’s arm around Yuuri’s shoulder, hand splayed out on his lower back, Yuuri’s shoulders tensed and face screwed up in discomfort. Victor frowned at that, suddenly remembering something Phichit said.  _ Celestino isn’t who you think he is. _

Phichit tugging on Yuuri’s sleeve, Celestino rolling his eyes with a smirk as he let the two disappear into the crowd.

The Count, glaring from so far away, the memories of his hands still imprinted along Victor’s wrists.

JJ barely even looked at him as he danced for the court, not paying attention to the sweat on his brow, the strain in his aching legs. Despite that, Victor couldn’t muster anything more than a superficial anger that barely scratched the surface. JJ looked  _ miserable _  on the throne, and he couldn’t have been much older than Phichit, if he was at all.

It was a wonder, the boy-king and the boy-revolutionary, both so much younger than Victor himself. Both caught up in forces determined by their place of birth.

Victor sighed as JJ indicated he was to stop and sit by him, sinking down on the cold stone floor by the throne and resting his head against it.

_ He wasn’t a murderer _ .

Time didn’t seem linear when he was in court. He barely remembered walking from one room to the next - one minute he’d be sitting next to the king, the next he’d be in a cold stone chamber he didn’t remember entering with one of a particularly handsy group of nobles grabbing at him like he was a hunk of roast beef, letting sounds out of his mouth that his brain didn’t seem to process.

“Hey, tell him to quiet down - we have work to do,” someone snapped, and the noble on top of him clamped a sweaty palm over his mouth.

It would always be strange to Victor how they called  _ him _  barbarian and yet they were the ones forcing him into very public sex acts, surrounded by other people. He took it in stride, though, quieting obediently behind the hand and making his reactions more subtle, less theatrical.

“Why couldn’t you wait until after the meeting?” a different noble complained. “This is  _ important. _ ”

“Like hell I’m gonna wait when he’s just sitting next to the king, begging for someone to claim him,” the noble snarled, thrusting in roughly. Victor bit his lip, pretending like he was trying desperately to muffle his sounds of pleasure, when really this was some of the most ordinary sex he’d had in his life, “Poor barbarian, I bet he’s just aching for it, since JJ won’t touch him-  _ ah _ .”

“Was this really a gift for JJ, or was it a gift for all of us?” yet another laughed.

“If I’d known you fools would do things like  _ this _  shameless display, I would’ve shipped him across the ocean instead,” came the now familiar voice of Celestino. Victor felt something dark churning in his gut.

_ You took me away from him _ , he thought, an uncharacteristically strong surge of emotion making his hands shake,  _ You’re no better than my old master. _

“We’re starting without you,” Celestino continued. “Join us when you’ve finished - we won’t get through much in half a minute.”

The noble inside Victor made an angry sound and gripped Victor’s leg to keep him in position, continuing at his steady, mechanical pace.

It was as dull as washing dishes. This noble wasn’t so rough that he worsened the low, steady throb in his lower back, so Victor lay back and let it happen, hoping it would be over soon.

“Can we keep him once JJ’s gone?”

Victor started and quickly disguised it as a jolt of pleasure. The noble didn’t seem to have noticed, though, so he strained his ears to listen.

“I don’t care what happens to him once JJ’s gone,” Celestino snapped, “Can we please focus on the task at hand?”

“Sorry, sorry…”

“I can’t believe they let that stupid, spoiled brat serve as king after Alain died. He barely finished his lessons on government before they let him on the throne. It should have been one of us.”

Victor continued to listen, face carefully blank.

That was interesting. It seemed like Phichit wasn’t the only person dissatisfied with King JJ’s rule.

Didn’t it matter to them that there was a complete stranger in the room who would hear all of their conversation? Who might tell King JJ?

No, Victor thought bitterly, to them he might as well have been another goblet on the table, a torch tacked to the wall.

“The biggest problem is his marriage to Princess Isabella, who has apparently shown actual aptitude for political rule. She could truly cause us problems, so we’ll need to work quick.”

Victor frowned, barely remembering to make noise when the noble came inside him and left him lying on the floor as he rejoined the group.

Well, he wouldn’t tell King JJ - but he did know two people who might be interested in what he’d overheard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I got a lot of notes that people were glad I didn't make JJ evil. And I'm definitely not trying to make him evil! I want him to be a well-rounded character, plus I have a soft spot for him because he's such a lovable idiot in canon. I'm kind of faltering wrt to how to write him, though, because he is the king of a slaveholding nation, which kind of inherently makes him a "bad guy." I figure he's grown up with the idea that owning slaves is normal, and it genuinely doesn't occur to him that the system of exploitation in his kingdom is cruel and awful. I'm wary of portraying him as too good, or a hapless victim of circumstance, bc he is still the king, if that makes sense. 
> 
> He wants to be a different person than his father, and I want his character arc to be learning that his father's policies were awful. There are a few ways I'm thinking of how to go about this and having it link up with the bigger overarching plot. 
> 
> I guess overall I want it to be clear that as long as he's the king and slavery still exists, he's morally in the wrong. But, he has the potential to learn why the kingdom's policies, and how he's let them continue, are bad - and that's how I want him to end up.
> 
> Does this make sense?? Was this explanation even necessary? I think some of you might've found the way he acted in this chapter a little jarring after the last one so I wanted to write out my full thoughts on who I'm trying to write JJ as.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone ask for Yuri P. pov? No? Well, here it is anyway. :P (Don't worry, you're not gonna "see" anything that happens with him. It'll be 99% offscreen.)
> 
> I'll be honest, this has been sitting, written, for about two weeks. I hit a pretty big block just a little bit down the road in the storyline, and I wanted to make sure I had more written so I could give you a bunch of consistent updates, but I also could NOT justify not giving you anything for another few weeks while I continue to puzzle things out. :P 
> 
> I have some big action stuff coming up but it takes quite a bit of setup to get to it, so please bear with me! The next chapter hopefully won't take this long, but I can't give you an exact date yet.

When Victor was taken away, it truly felt as though the world was ending.

Yuri had never really realized the extent to which he depended on Victor to keep him sane while at the Ice Castle, not until the night he’d been taken by the Count. The way he’d felt about Victor was… Complicated, before that.

Victor helped him through his appointments and tended to his wounds, self inflicted or otherwise, with both an innate tenderness and surprising skill, with firm hands that worked like they’d sewn up soldiers on a battlefield. Barely any tremble, sure and steady, just like his grandpa.

That was it, though, and at the beginning Yuri was so angry that Victor  _ wasn’t _ . Angry, that is.

He’d rant and rave about how  _ unfair _  it was, the things they asked him to do, how he had no say in any of it.

And Victor wouldn’t respond, like he didn’t think it was unfair, or maybe like he knew but didn’t care, and some nights Yuri would lie there  _ hating _  him for his apathy.

Then, once, after the evening was done and work was over and Victor had him curled up in his arms to calm him, he’d had a nightmare.

It was an awful, awful thing - Yuri didn’t think he’d ever had such agonized screaming, didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes so wild with fear. Victor kept babbling something, repeating a string of words in that strange, silky language Yuri’s grandpa used when it was late and he thought no one could hear him.

Nothing could calm him. Yuri found himself running through the halls in a panic, trying to find anyone awake, and stumbled on Chris on his way to the lavatory.

Chris managed to calm him down quickly, eyes tired, full of practice as he slowly coaxed Victor out of his own head. Yuri never forgot the way Victor had looked at him afterwards, blank and pristine, eyes like translucent glass.

He never forgot the way Chris had sighed as he put Victor back to bed after and looked at him, saying, “They used to be worse, believe it or not. He’s calmed down a lot since being here.”

Then, there was the night after he’d seen the Count, and Yuri looked for him in a fury for not being there to cater to Yuri’s trauma - and found him sewing up a deep gash in his arm, eyes glazed over in pain but hands steady as the pressed the needle into the puckered edges of his torn skin.

Then, there was the way Victor had called the first night Yuri hadn’t bled after a string of clients a  _ celebration _ , how he made Chris hand over a sliver of the bitter baker’s chocolate from the kitchens and paraded him around like he was a little girl getting her period for the first time.

Yuri understood, then, for the first time a little bit more about his enigmatic mentor - born a slave, bounced from a cruel master to a crueler whorehouse by the docks to, finally, the relative peace and quiet of the Ice Castle - though peace and quiet was a relative term when he spent his nights bent into a dozen different contortions no matter how much they hurt.

Fucking hell, Victor had been bought by his first master to sleep with at the age of  _ twelve _ , and Yuri knew there was a training period for all slaves brought over from abroad. Victor wasn’t apathetic, he was  _ fucked up in the head _ .

Suddenly, Yuri wasn’t angry at Victor, he was  _ scared _ . As a few months stretched into a year, and he celebrated his fifteenth birthday with a sweet from Victor and half a dozen men come to try out their newest, and youngest, addition, he became less sure that he’d be out of the Ice Castle as quickly as he’d come in. He saw a future where he’d smile that same blank smile, say  _ yes, sir _  and  _ please, sir _ , and never even dream of arguing back because the fight had been beaten out of him.

So Victor became Yuri’s counterpart. So long as he was there, smiling and subservient, Yuri could be angry without consequence. Well, no, not without consequence - Yuri could already feel the raised red lines on his back from multiple beatings - but with a renewed vigor that he was going to  _ object _  to this treatment, dammit.

And he was going to object to the treatment Victor got, especially when that miserable Count came around.

Yuri formed a dependence on Victor that a former version of himself would have hated. He needed his warm hands to tend to his wounds, needed him to be his sounding board for all of his angry thoughts, late at night when the day’s work was over and it was just the two of them in the dark.

Especially after his turn with the Count. It was like breaking a bone - Yuri could feel the  _ snap _  somewhere in his mind. Without Victor, he would have slit his wrists in the bathroom before sleeping with another client. With Victor, he could relax into a warm embrace, hear oddly familiar stories that he remembered from his grandpa’s knee as a child, and be treated like the human being with feelings he knew he was and not the object his,  _ their _ , clients saw.

It didn’t make it go away, and the few nights after he had to sit in front of the communal mirror behind the stage and count the gilded birds carved into it, Victor running his fingers through his hair and telling him silly stories about the fake Yuri as a kid to calm him.

_ How did you manage it _ ? Yuri wondered, snapping back because he had a reputation to uphold,  _ You were alone, you’ve said, so how did you survive all those years without anyone? _

Then, suddenly, Victor was gone. His room was empty, bare, and he’d had no possessions save for the bright gold ring. It was like he’d never lived there to begin with.

Then, suddenly, it was nighttime, and his first client came in. Life went on, a whirlwind of things outside of his control, and Yuri wanted to scream  _ stop, wait, give me time, I need more time -  _ but of course, that wasn’t how it worked.

Yuri was so angry, so miserable, and as he curled his lip ready to snarl and take whatever punishment would come to him… But where would he go, after? If he was upset, he’d curl up in Victor’s bed and fall into a restless sleep with him - but now, there was no Victor.

When Yuri was first sold, he’d believed it would just be for a few months. After all, how much debt could his stupid mother have racked up? Just like he’d never really believed Victor would be sold, not even to stupid Yuuri who had promised so much and  _ failed _  like the miserable whining piggy he was.

What did he do, now?

The first night, after his appointments, he’d sat on the roof and stared out at the city below, imagined jumping off.

Hot gas lamps lit up the streets, free men grabbed whores off the street and kissed them to stifle any protest. The street below was glowing and orange, and Yuri hated every goddamn thing about himself and what he’d let them do. No beating tonight, but just because he was so numb he couldn’t find the energy to fight back. And being beaten didn’t seem righteous when he’d have no one to sympathize with after, it just seemed painful and lonely.

“Yakov’s going to kill you if he finds you up here,” came Mila’s voice from behind him.

Yuri didn’t turn around. “Good,” he said. “What are you doing up here?”

Mila didn’t answer, but Yuri heard the slow gulp of her drinking something.

“Addict,” he spat.

“Mm,” Mila agreed. “Perks of the job. Besides, the passed out rich people I take these from can afford more.”

Yuri frowned, then he reached for the bottle of Laudanum. Mila snatched it away, a thrill of fear on her face.

“Don’t be stingy,” Yuri snapped, “Why can’t I have some?”

“You don’t just have  _ some _ ,” Mila snapped back, “Not when your life sucks as much as yours does. This place isn’t big enough for two of us.”

Yuri grumbled and groused and turned his back on her, thinking about his head splattering open on the pavement below.

“You won’t die,” Mila said, unhelpfully, noting his line of vision and obvious train of thought. “Not from this height. Break your leg, that’s it.”

“Then why the fuck am I up here?” Yuri growled, standing with a wince as his bones cracked.

“To enjoy the pleasure of my company?” Mila offered, quickly.

“Fuck off.”

“Yuri,” Mila called out to his back. Yuri tensed in anger. “Yuri, wait. Sit… Sit here for a while.”

“Fuck  _ off _ , Mila,” he snarled, but he didn’t move.

“I know you’re not going to sleep,” Mila said, “So why not just… Sit here. People watch with me.”

“You must be fucking high,” Yuri spat, legs moving involuntarily to sit next to her. “What makes you think I want that?”

Mila shrugged.

Yuri groaned as he plopped down. “Only because I’m worried you’ll fall off if I don’t look out for you.”

He ignored her grin, the drugged-over glaze in her eyes.

“I miss Victor,” Mila whispered, “He had all these stories, just like the ones my baba used to tell me.”

“Don’t call her that,” Yuri snapped.

“Fuck off,” Mila snapped back.

Yuri glared out at the bar across the street, the last patrons stumbling out, vomiting their guts out in alleyways nearby. They went to the bar, then the whorehouse, then back to the bar once they’d drunk in their fill of flesh.

“I miss him too,” he murmured.

* * *

 

Yuuri winced, prodding at a dark red lovebite on his collar, right above the line of his shirt.

“He keeps putting them higher,” he grumbled, rubbing at the damned thing like he could wipe it off if he tried hard enough. Coordinating to see Victor was  _ hard _  - it would have been difficult even without Celestino’s clinginess, but he’d taken to insisting Yuuri stay by him while he slept, even if they hadn’t touched each other that evening. It was an obnoxious attempt to keep an eye on him, and it barely made up for how they spent their days apart, so Yuuri could focus on working with Phichit.

Or, it was Celestino’s reaction to the honeymoon phase of a relationship, which somehow was even worse.

He’d managed to wheedle out some alone time by working irritatingly loud into the night, a lamp burning low at Celestino’s desk, until Celestino had told him to go study in the library.

Seeing Victor was a nightmare and a dream wrapped up in one. Touching him was like an oasis in the middle of the desert, his kisses sweet fruit after immense hunger. Of course, then, that made their inevitable separation all that much harder. One day, every evening would be like that, Yuuri swore. The low lamplight and soft sheets and just the two of them, pressed against each other.

At least, Yuuri hoped.

_ You should give up on me _ , Victor had said.

Yuuri wouldn’t. But would Victor give up on him? Gods, he wouldn’t blame him. Yuuri had, no matter how inadvertently, caused him nothing but misery. It didn’t matter, he supposed. He’d keep fighting so long as Victor was still alive, so long as there was still a chance.

How could he prove Victor’s worth to him when everyone else in his life had told him the opposite?

“Yuuri.” Phichit’s voice came from behind him, and Yuuri whirled around. Phichit looked unsure, hesitant, in the doorway to his room. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, wrapped around him like he was cold, picked at a scab on the side of his chin - like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Yuuri took a deep breath and took one hand, squeezing it reassuringly. He’d go in for a hug, but he still didn’t…

It wasn’t about Phichit. Touching  _ anyone _  had become a bit of a chore, save for Victor. It was frustrating, immensely aggravating, because they’d been so intimate before - and there was no way Phichit wouldn’t take this as some lingering anger about what was really Celestino being cruel. If only Yuuri could explain, but explaining made it seem too tangible, what was happening to him.

“He keeps leaving marks,” Yuuri said, by way of explanation. “Victor saw this one last night.”

“Did you tell him?” Phichit asked, “About Celestino.”

Yuuri wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “No. He assumed… Well, I don’t know what he assumed, but he said he didn’t mind. I don’t want him to think I’m sleeping with someone else, thought - well, I am, but you know what I mean. Like, willingly-”

Too close. Too real. Yuuri abruptly bit his lip to stop himself from going further.

“I don’t want to tell him, though,” Yuuri sighed. “He has enough to worry about.”

Phichit didn’t offer an opinion on that, and Yuuri wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful. He squeezed Yuuri’s hand, though, as a sign of encouragement.

“I spoke to him last night, too,” Phichit whispered, then winced immediately, like he expected Yuuri to hit him.

Yuuri’s eyes widened. “Why? What did you say?”

“I wanted to show him it wasn’t just you fighting this,” Phichit admitted, “I… Can understand him, in some ways, so I thought a different approach to asking might help.”

Yuuri nodded. Then, Phichit’s words hit him, and he froze. In what way Phichit could understand Victor, the barbarian slave, Yuuri couldn’t even begin to fathom - but he had a sneaking suspicion it didn’t mean anything good.

“Wait,” he spluttered, “What do you mean by that last thing?”

“The country lies to slaves, tells them it’s impossible to escape, that no one has,” Phichit explained. “But I know better. I thought Victor might appreciate that.”

“Oh,” Yuuri nodded, though Yuuri had the sneaking suspicion he was leaving something out of the explanation. For a moment, he debated prodding even further, but he knew from practice that Phichit would just shut down if he did. So, he decided it wasn’t worth the ill-will. “That makes sense. Thank you, Phichit.”

Phichit smiled, shyly, and Yuuri squeezed his hand again. He hadn’t let go since Phichit had come in - he hoped it got his feelings across better than his leaden tongue could.

Then, it was down to business.

“I arranged for a lesson today,” Phichit said. “You have fencing at noon, then free exercise at four. I think you need a little bit more background information before I can bring you into the council - it’s been some time since you kept up with kingdom politics, I think.”

Yuuri blushed and nodded. “After breakfast, when today am I going to see Celestino?” he asked, voice trembling just a little.

“Just fencing,” Phichit assured him. “He’s got a full day of meetings.”

“Thank the gods,” Yuuri said, relief hitting him with the force of a mallet. That didn’t mean he’d be free that night, but trying to pretend he didn’t want to scream when Celestino talked to him or touched him casually, non-intimately, was becoming more and more difficult.

“You ready for breakfast?” Phichit asked, delicately.

Yuuri gulped, but he nodded. His stomach swirled and churned, and a constant state of nausea seemed to grip him.

“Phichit,” he whispered, “When can I see him again?”

Phichit bit his lip, and Yuuri’s heart sank.

“As soon as possible,” Phichit assured him, wincing at his expression. “But… I don’t know when that will be.”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri said, “I understand.” He sighed, then. “I think I might’ve been a little overzealous when I said he would kill King JJ.”

Phichit smiled, kindly. “You were just trying to help, and it wasn’t a bad idea.”

“I want to know,” Yuuri said, “What I can do to help. Really help. I feel like… I feel like I’ve been so far removed from the world that I don’t even know what’s going on.”

Phichit tapped his chin, looking contemplative. “Today, I want to get you up to speed on kingdom politics. There are a few people I want you to meet. We’ll see if we can’t find the best place for you.”

Yuuri nodded gratefully, then grit his teeth and prepared for breakfast with Celestino.

* * *

 

Victor woke up early, when the sun streamed in through his window and caressed his pale face, coaxing him from precious sleep. Just because JJ wasn’t fucking him didn’t mean he was free during the hours court wasn’t in session - it was, apparently, his job to bring him the water to wash his face and hands in the morning, to lace up his shirt and his shiny black boots.

Before he had Victor, the cook would bring King JJ his meal on a tray. Now, Victor would wander the long, lonely halls to the kitchen and take the tray himself. He was something of an oddity - the cook eyed him up and down the first time he explained why he was there. When he was a child, newly brought to his first master’s house, the domestic slaves treated him with a particular kindness. They helped him, taught him the strange, foreign tongue of his new land.

No one here was cruel to him, but he clearly represented something to the other slaves that they didn’t like.

Breakfast for him was porridge, plain and filling, only barely richer than his fare at the Ice Castle.

He picked up little bits of gossip in his free moments. King Alain had worked the slaves like finely-oiled cogs in a clock. The slightest failure was inexcusable. No one seemed to want to talk about what the punishment for something  _ inexcusable _  was, but Victor could imagine.

By contrast, if King Alain was overbearing, King JJ was downright neglectful. The head chef was responsible for planning the menu and running the kitchen, unless JJ specifically asked for something. The woman who was in charge of the cleaning team got to clean and polish the way she wanted with little to no advice from the king.

They worked, and cleaned, and the castle was as gleaming as it was in King Alain’s prime - save the crumbling stonework and the rotting wooden beams.

Victor sometimes wondered why they didn’t just stop. Out of fear, probably - it was hard to break habits built from self-preservation.

And then there he was, specifically given to pleasure the King, but who the King absolutely refused to touch. It ached that he couldn’t enjoy the lack of contact, and not just because those damned nobles seemed intent on making up what King JJ lacked.

It wasn’t just him - a young slave dropped a plate, and they’d had him beaten, loud and lingering in the courtyard. They wandered the palace like they owned it.

Phichit thought killing the king would solve their problems. Victor couldn’t fathom how.

It was so, so difficult to see a path that ended with his freedom.

* * *

 

When Victor was at the Ice Castle, it felt like just the two of them worked there.

Now, Yuri was suddenly cognizant of different shapes and shadows, young men and women walking all around him. He slept, or tried to sleep, in a large, well-lit room with five other boys. He wasn’t sure why the dormitories were sex-segregated - what, was Yakov afraid of them having consensual sex with each other? - but he’d finally started speaking to two of his bunk-mates, Kenjirou Minami and Guang Hong.

Yuri worried, before, that if he started talking to anyone, or even treated them with respect, it was as good as expecting to be at the Ice Castle permanently. Now, it seemed like the only way for him to survive.

Minami was bubbly, hyperactive. He was a debt slave going into his third month of service, spared from manual labor because of his age and pretty face, though he’d confided to Yuri he wasn’t sure if it had been the blessing the magistrate had presented it as.

He’d spotted Yuuri, whose name still made Yuri’s gut churn with a dark anger, when he first came for the festival performance, and he’d immediately fallen in love. Minami was immensely jealous that Yuri had met him - to which Yuri hissed, “He’s a spineless loser, it’s good he’s gone.”

Guang Hong was quieter, with big, puppy-dog eyes and a manic need to check his appearance in the mirror. He hadn’t been  _ born _  a slave per-se, but his homeland had been taken over by King Alain shortly after he turned three. He hadn’t offered any information on how he’d made it to the Ice Castle, but Yuri knew Victor’s story, and he didn’t begrudge Guang Hong for not wanting to talk about it.

Yuri could feel himself changing, and not just his newfound attitudes towards the other slaves. His grandfather, long ago, had called his irritability, his fiery temper a  _ defense mechanism _  against the stronger boys who might see his pretty face and long blonde hair as some kind of weakness. Now, he was developing new defense mechanisms - and they scared him.

His expression was softer. His hair was longer, pulled back in intricate braids with ribbons woven through. His whole being was more pliant.

The clients loved it. They loved his face, his long hair, his bright green eyes - and Yakov stopped having to beat him. He even mentioned off-hand that if Yuri kept this up, he could move into his own room in a few short months, the rooms reserved for the best sellers.

Yuri was so immensely relieved that they’d stopped beating him. He loved the way Minami cooed over his long hair, brushing through it with firm, practiced strokes, and joked about giving him a cherry-red streak so they matched.

He was becoming just like Victor, and he hated himself for it.

* * *

 

For the first time in what must’ve been years, Yuuri found himself in the poorer parts of the city. He knew these streets, had run up and down them as a child with a group of friends whose faces he barely remembered.

A lump formed in his throat, and he shuddered at the chilly wind that bit through him.

Yuuri shook his head and took a deep, shuddering breath. Even so many years later, he missed his parents, his sister, his Minako. Some days, he still smelled the deep-fried pork cutlet that had been his mother’s specialty. He submerged himself in hot baths in glistening, porcelain tubs and found it would never compare to the natural springs that his family carefully cultivated.

He remembered with a sheepish amusement how they maintained two sets - one for relaxation and bathing, one for clients to rent out as they wished.

The men and women his parents employed were so sweet to him, him and Mari. He remembered the area he lived being a vibrant nightlife spot - a little red light district, but wandering through it now, it seemed so empty. He remembered groups of prostitutes, free people, giggling as they walked together for safety from unruly clients.

Then, during the daytime, they operated shops or sold goods by the side of the road. There was nothing, now, just a bleak emptiness.

“Where is everyone?” Yuuri murmured.

Phichit said, “At the bars, probably.”

Yuuri blinked, “But it’s daytime. Why aren’t they working?”

“This area has high unemployment,” Phichit explained, “So they don’t have much else to do but drink.”

Yuuri’s eyes flitted to what must’ve been a bar a ways down the street - the price of a pint of beer had been crossed out in bright red ink three separate times, increased to an almost unbelievable sum. There was a rumble of chatter from within, morose and desperate.

“We just have a little ways further,” Phichit explained, tugging Yuuri forward gently.

“How,” Yuuri whispered, “How did it get like this?”

Phichit stopped to hand a couple of coins to a panhandler by the side of the road, and Yuuri winced guiltily.

 

After a few moments, Phichit explained, “They won’t pay an employee if they can have a slave do the job for free.”

They wandered through a few darkened alleyways which brought Yuuri back to long nights, asleep on the streets. His ears, trained by his childhood, picked up every crackling leaf, each footstep echoing from far away.

Finally, they stopped before a shoddy tenement hall, and Phichit knocked on the door loudly.

After a few tense moments, the door creaked open, and a beautiful young woman with brown hair and eyes blinked happily.

“Good morning, Phichit,” she chirped. “I got your telegram. What brings you here today?” Then, she glanced around and leaned in, lowering her voice. “The meeting isn’t until Friday. Has something happened?”

Phichit shook his head, quickly. “Nothing like that, don’t worry, Yuuko. We have a new recruit, so I’m showing him around.”

_ Yuuko _ . That name seemed so familiar, though Yuuri couldn’t quite place why. He shyly met her gaze, feeling very out of his depth, especially as her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand.

“Yuuri?” She breathed, “Gods above, is that you?”

Yuuri blinked. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Um. Yes? I mean, I think? I don’t…”

“You don’t know who you are?” Yuuko teased, eyes sparkling.

_ Honestly, kind of _ , Yuuri thought. Instead, he gulped and answered, “I’m afraid I don’t remember who you are.”

Yuuko seemed affronted for a moment, but that melted away quickly, and she slumped back against the peeling paint of the doorframe with a huff.

“I suppose not,” she sighed, sadly. “It was so long ago. We used to play together - you, me, and Takeshi. I always wondered what happened to you after your folks passed away.”

Yuuri blinked. If he strained his memory, he could pick up a few stray snapshots - holding hands with a pretty older girl as they twirled around, stretching in the park, an older boy poking at his pudgy stomach and laughing.

“I,” Yuuri began, suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of emotion. “Minako and I, we moved away.”

He didn’t elaborate. It was still hard to talk about those months, living together on the streets. The hunger, the grief, the listlessness that made him want to curl up on the ground and let the elements take him.

Somehow, his years with the Lord and Victor were even harder.

“Minako,” Yuuko perked up, and Yuuri winced as he saw where this train of thought was going. “I remember her. There was this one time - goodness, I can’t believe I’m remembering it, but there was this one time that I went to visit your parents’ onsen at night, and this creepy guy tried to grab me! Luckily, Minako was there, and she certainly put the fear of death in him for doing that.”

She didn’t continue, and Yuuri secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

“He’s living with me and Celestino, now,” Phichit explained.

Yuuko whistled appreciatively. “Wow, Yuuri, look at you,” she gasped, “How did you manage that? Charm your way in, like Phichit here?”

Yuuri smiled, softly. “Minako did. He’s sterile, did you know that? She managed to convince him to take me on as an heir.”

Yuuko snorted. “Serves him right. Good for you, though! I’m glad his heir will be on our side - maybe we can convince him instead of kill him.”

Yuuri couldn’t hide his surprise, and he looked to Phichit in shock.

“We, um, hadn’t gotten there yet,” Phichit said sheepishly, to Yuuko.

Yuuko frowned. “How much did you tell him? That’s pretty basic stuff.”

Phichit winced, which was enough of an answer for Yuuko.

After a long, extended silence, where Yuuri scratched the back of his neck and Phichit looked away pointedly, Yuuko rolled her eyes. “Kids,” she sniffed. “I guess you’d better come inside, then.”

* * *

 

“You have,” Yuuko explained over a hot cup of tea, “Two groups. The king, and the nobility. Do you remember the upheaval three years ago, when King JJ came to power?”

Yuuri shook his head, sheepish once again.

“The court split. One group claimed that King JJ should be on the throne, as King Alain’s only son. The other, that the nobles who had been de facto in charge should maintain power until King JJ was fit to rule. Of course, no one had an answer for how long that would be.”

Yuuko took a sip of tea and Yuuri glanced to Phichit, who smiled back at him grimly. The apartment was pretty, if small and a little run down. Dolls and toys littered the floor, flecked with the peeling paint.

“The nobles conceded eventually,” Yuuko continued, “but not without it coming to bloodshed more than once as the army split as well. Of course, they only conceded because they thought they could manipulate the young king. That didn’t exactly work out for them.”

“We want,” Phichit explained, “To exploit this weakness. Now that King JJ is getting older, the tension is getting worse. If they were unified, they’d overwhelm us easily, but separately…” He grimaced. “Which is why King JJ needs to be firmly out of the picture.”

Yuuko narrowed her eyes. “Phichit…”

“Easier him than a whole group of nobles,” Phichit sniffed.

“Do you really think he’s going to team up with the people who have been undermining his rule for the past three years?” Yuuko said, exasperated.

“I think he’d do anything if it meant stopping us from taking over the throne,” Phichit snapped back. “We can’t risk that kind of alliance forming.”

Yuuri blinked, stunned into silence once more.

Yuuko seemed to notice his shock and put her hands up in surrender. “Let’s save the infighting for Friday,” she said, sardonically.

Phichit seemed to calm and he flushed in embarrassment. “I don’t want us to fail,” he whispered. “Because we showed them a kindness they’d never show us.”

“We  _ won’t _ ,” Yuuko assured him, sharp and firm. “I… Friday, okay, Phi?” She turned to Yuuri. “You’re coming too, right?”

Yuuri swallowed. He hadn’t even been aware there was a meeting on Friday.

“Yes,” Phichit answered for him.

Voices came from outside, and the trio hushed immediately. As they got closer, though, Yuuko seemed to perk up, and a few moments later a harried looking man with three young girls hanging off of him stumbled through the door.

“Welcome home, Takeshi,” Yuuko smiled, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Girls. Say hello to our guests. Takeshi, do you remember Yuuri?”

“Yuuri Katsuki?” Takeshi gaped, like he’d seen a ghost. “I’ll be honest, I thought you’d died years ago.”

Yuuri blushed, biting his lip. “Ah, no. I’m here, somehow.”  _ Even if the rest of my family isn’t _ .

“He sold his soul to a devil named Cialdini,” Yuuko joked, and Takeshi blew out a breath in shock as Yuuko summed up what Yuuri had told her.

“Good for you,” Takeshi said, “Honestly, if I were you, I’d curl up on a feather mattress and not leave for years, also.”

Yuuri flushed. It was hard, now, not to feel guilty about how he’d shut out the world, pretended his problems were gone. It had hurt, though, everything had hurt for so long - hadn’t he deserved a break?

Yuuri was just about to ask after the three girls, who were all chattering loudly and attempting to climb over Phichit’s back, when a  _ bang _  loud as a gunshot echoed down the hall, followed by an agonized wail.

Yuuko swore and was out the door in an instant, Takeshi hot on her heels. Yuuri followed, nervous and wanting to help.

The scene made Yuuri’s stomach crawl, a woman dressed in barely more than rags weeping before a clean-shaven man, eyes glittering in annoyance as he raked his gaze from her to the golden pocketwatch in his hand.

“Please,” the woman sobbed, “My husband will be here soon, he’s just at the bar down the street, let him talk to you-”

“If he doesn’t have the money for rent up front,” the man snapped, “I don’t want to hear from him.”

“He doesn’t have a job, we don’t have anywhere to go-”

“Look, that’s not my problem,” the man sniffed in disdain, “I came all the way from uptown for this, so you either leave the property right now, or I write down that you’ve fallen into debt. I’m sure the magistrate will find a good place to intern you to pay off what you owe the state.”

“Maria,” Yuuko snarled, rushing forward and kneeling beside the weeping woman, “Shh, shh, it’s okay. You can stay with us, tonight. How’s that sound?”

“My husband…”

“He can stay, too,” Yuuko assured her. “We have plenty of space.”

The woman, Maria, looked up to her with watery eyes and began weeping gratefully, wrapping her arms around Yuuko’s neck. The man, the landlord, Yuuri realized, rolled his eyes and walked away from the emotional scene like it wasn’t even happening. He noticed a silver ring on his finger, emblazoned with the insignia of one of the many nobles at court. Was this apartment block owned by him?

There wasn’t plenty of space in Yuuko’s apartment. It was cozy, to put it politely, with two adults and three children living there. Yuuri half wanted to offer her one of the many guest rooms at the Cialdini estate, but he didn’t think Celestino would like that.

“Hey,” Takeshi sniffed, eyes flashing, “We still don’t have working hot water. Any idea when you’ll get that fixed?”

The landlord rolled his eyes, twirling the ring on his finger in annoyance. “When I get to it,” he snapped. Then, without so much as meeting any of their gaze, he stalked past them and out the door.

“The jackass,” Takeshi growled as Yuuko lead Maria back to their place. “It’s not our fault none of us have work.”

“It’s a miracle that your parents’ place stayed open as long as it did,” Yuuko chimed in, poking her head out of the apartment, “No one buys free sex workers anymore, not when there’s a slave brothel for half price down the street.”

“That’s not their fault,” Yuuri snapped, a wave of anger washing over him.

Yuuko looked taken aback. “I don’t think it’s their fault,” she said, frowning.

The anger dissipated as quickly as it appeared, leaving only a creeping embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Yuuri mumbled, “Sorry. It’s been… A long few days.”

“Yuuri,” Takeshi said, changing the subject, “Would you like to see your parents inn? It’s still there.”

Yuuri was so stunned that for a moment, no words would come out. He struggled, thinking back to his childhood home, to all of the happy memories that were buried there. It would only hurt, walking those long hallways and hearing the phantom footsteps of his older sister, the laughter as his parents danced together in the kitchen in the quiet moments before the inn opened for the night.

“I didn’t realize,” he whispered instead of answering properly.

“Old buildings don’t get bought, or torn down, not around here,” Takeshi sighed. “At night, sometimes the sign still catches the lamplight, almost like someone still lives there.”

Yuuri closed his eyes and brought a trembling hand up to his lips. “I don’t think I can,” Yuuri admitted, “To see their beloved place, left to crumble… It would break my heart.”

Takeshi nodded, sadly. He put a firm hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, which Yuuri managed not to flinch away from, and Yuuri blinked away the tears that blurred his vision.

Their meeting was cut short by Yuuko determinedly contacting friends and neighbors to help Maria and her husband find a place to stay for the time being. Yuuri saw the frustration in her eyes, the way her back bent from work.

“It’s no good,” she whispered, so Maria couldn’t hear, tears beading in her eyes. “Unless they can find a job, they can’t get a new place. There’s only so much we can do. If the state finds out that they’re legally homeless…” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Phichit, I don’t know how much longer this can wait.”

“I don’t either,” Phichit admitted. “We have to act soon. How’s the draft coming along?”

“I’m nearly done,” Yuuko said. “Leo’s coming over soon to look it over. We’ll be ready by Friday.”

Phichit nodded and pulled Yuuko in for a hug, which she gratefully returned.

“Yuuri,” Yuuko said, voice cracking. “I’m so glad I got to see you again. I’m so glad you’re helping us.”

“Of course,” Yuuri murmured, “Of course. Being Celestino’s heir isn’t… It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Phichit’s expression darkened, thought Yuuko and Takeshi didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Yuuko smiled. “Good luck, you two.”

With that, they left. The streets were still empty, the cold gray of winter somehow making their footsteps echo all the louder.

“Sometimes,” Yuuri murmured, “It feels like Vitya is the only proof I have that I was a child, once. When I was young, everything felt like it was bathed in this golden light. In my memories, it’s always sunny and beautiful. That went away when my parents and sister died, but strangely, it comes back when I think of how I met him. Even though I know, now, how awful things were for him.”

“It’s the same with me,” Phichit said, and Yuuri’s eyes went wide, “I want to make a future that feels like the warmth I knew in the past. I wonder if it’s too late, though, if we’ve seen too much for that to happen.”

Yuuri didn’t know what Phichit had seen, but there was such an aching sincerity in his voice that Yuuri’s heart panged painfully for whatever he was hiding.

At every stage in Yuuri’s life, he’d gone through some form of grief. Grief for his parents, grief for Victor, grief for Minako. What grief would come for him next, render him speechless and weeping and unable to move? Would it be Victor? Phichit?

_ Yuuri, we need to move, you’ll freeze to death if you stay here. _

_ I want to die, Minako, what does life mean if Victor isn’t in it _ ?

Little did he know in a few short years, he’d be asking the same question about her.

Yuuri shook his head. “What’s next, Phichit?” he sighed.

Phichit blinked, “What do you mean?”

“I want to know more,” he said, “I want… to keep learning.”

Phichit smiled. “After your fencing lesson, there’s another person I need you to meet.”

Yuuri stumbled and almost fell. “I forgot about that,” he whispered. “Oh gods, I completely forgot.”

It was hard to breathe, suddenly. The fog from his breath swirled in front of him, spinning as he tried to find his balance.

“Yuuri,” Phichit gasped, “Yuuri, please, I’m here. Deep breaths, I’m right here.”

His hands hovered over Yuuri’s shoulders, not touching, but close enough that Yuuri could feel the warmth from his fingertips. Yuuri grit his teeth, desperate to calm himself, and he sobbed out a shuddering breath as the world righted around him.

“Yuuri,” Phichit said, slowly. “How well can you fake an injury?”

Yuuri frowned. “I’ve never had to before.” Suddenly, he remembered something from so long ago. “Wait, that’s not true. Once, Minako told me to act like my leg was broken so we’d get more money from people on the street.”

Phichit laughed. “Good for Minako. Now, how do you feel like trying that out again?”

“He’ll be furious,” Yuuri whispered. “You know he will be. Besides, I’d need to keep up the act even when he’s… You know, when he sees me in the evening. It’s too risky.” He caught Phichit’s gaze, curiously, “I… Don’t be upset by this, but I’m surprised you offered something that could cause so many problems.”

Phichit blinked. He sighed, fists clenched by his sides. “My whole life has been weighing whether it’s better to suffer through something now for greater results later,” he admitted. “But I’ll be honest, seeing you like this really, really hurts. I care about you more than I’ve cared about anyone since my mother died.”

Yuuri’s mouth opened in shock. He was strangely touched, and the flickering warmth in his heart broke through his fear of touch for a moment, just long enough to pull Phichit into a hug. When Phichit pulled back, his face was flushed, and his eyes were shining.

“I can do this,” Yuuri said, swallowing down the quiver in his voice. “I’ll find something good today, I promise.”

Phichit let out a sound that might’ve been a sob, but he nodded, and they continued on their way back.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has officially been 3 years today since the work this fic is based on has updated (laughing and crying). :P 
> 
> Thanks for being so patient with the updates, I should have another one out next week, woohoo! And HOPEFULLY we'll finally get some plot elements rolling. Argh, what is pacing?
> 
> Teeny little spoiler, Makkachin makes an appearance in this chapter. Not for any reason other than I wanted to give Victor a bit of a break. I just wanted to mention it because I want to reassure all of you that nothing bad is going to happen to her. :P No dead dogs in this fic, for what its worth.
> 
> Hopefully I'll get around to responding to all the comments from the past few chapters, I definitely have seen and appreciate all of them <3\. Seriously, every person who has left me a comment, I'm love u (and kudos, and bookmarks, etc etc).

To avoid sitting still, or rather, to avoid the listlessness and the intrusive thoughts it brought, Victor often found himself wandering around the palace gardens. It was the same surreal experience as wandering the gleaming halls, how the grounds were kept impeccably clean and polished, despite King JJ never choosing to partake in their beauty.

It was cold, winter cold, though it never reached the consistent below freezing of his homeland. The trees were bare, just branches against a blue sky, though a few seasonal plants sprouted throughout the gardens.

He was barefoot, despite the cold ground. It reminded him of being a child, toes wiggling in the cold dirt during the spring planting. The soil was soft, like pillows underfoot - even the sand of the dirt paths leading through his village seemed silken in his memories.

He’d been introduced to shoes by his first master and had immediately hated the constrictive, shiny black things. Tracking dirt inside was one of the easiest ways to get a beating, though, so it was only in rare moments of confidence that he allowed himself to feel the freedom of earth underfoot.

His mother had worn shoes, soft leather slippers that protected her on sharper gravel paths. It seemed that adults wore shoes. Victor wondered if it was because they couldn’t be picked up and carried along sharp-edged roads, so they needed them.

When he was feeling especially daring, he wandered all the way to the edges of the palace gardens. The wrought-iron fences loomed above him, so cold to the touch they almost burned, and he stared out for as long as he dared as people in long, flowing wrapped togas of thick woolen fabric in the winter walked past.

He didn’t have winter clothes, and he knew objectively he must’ve been cold - his fingers were stiff, swollen as he tried to clench them into a fist, and the fine white hairs on his arms and legs stuck up with the goosebumps on his skin. It didn’t feel cold, though. It didn’t feel like much of anything.

Victor would’ve lost himself in people watching for hours had he not heard a low whine from behind him. He turned around, sure that no one was around in the chilly afternoon except for him.

Another whine, and a sad snuffling sound. Victor’s heart leapt - that wasn’t a person, that was…

He quickly scanned his surroundings and found a fluffy mass by a rosebush, whimpering and whining.

“Dog,” he whispered, kneeling beside the animal, careful not to frighten the poor thing. She had curly brown hair, thick and fluffy, and big black eyes that looked up at him pleadingly. Victor didn’t miss the gash on her front paw, nor the thick blood that oozed out of it, and he winced in sympathy. “Oh, you poor thing.”

He reached out, only to have the dog growl and bare her teeth at the sudden movement.

“Shh,” he soothed, pulling back, then putting his curled fingers under her wet nose, “Shh, darling, you don’t need to be afraid.”

The dog sniffed his fingers, tentatively, then snorted her approval onto them. She licked the fingers, and Victor giggled, heart lighter than it had been in a long time.

“I’m going to carry you back to my room, mm?” he said, pleased by how docile she had become in a few mere moments. She even let him scratch around her ears, the back of her neck, where Victor noticed there was no collar. “Get your paw looked at. How’s that sound, girl?”

She didn’t respond, only panted happily as he continued to scratch her ears and under her chin. Victor ran his fingers through her thick fur, looking for ticks or other parasites.

_ Put food out for the dogs, Vitya, my son, but you need to check for fleas before letting them inside! _

Victor frowned and shook his head at a sudden chill. A bit abruptly, he scooped the poodle up - luckily, she didn’t seem to mind, and she wagged her tail happily against his thigh. She was  _ big,  _ big like a child, squirming happily in his arms. As if to torment him, the pain in his lower back twinged at him carrying such a load, but he ignored it stubbornly to carry the dog to warmth and safety.

The slaves’ living quarters were a ways from the palace proper, ranging from barracks that housed a dozen to small single-rooms, like Victor’s own. They all surrounded the jewel of this part of the palace, the bath house - where Victor half-heartedly washed his limp silver hair and where King Alain had reportedly loved to take his pleasures.

Victor kept a bowl of cold water outside his room, and after a long day he’d sit on the dead grass outside and wash his feet with soapy water, massaging the crevices of his soles and washing between his toes to get the day’s grime out.

He took a cloth and gently washed the cut on the dog’s paw with water and soap and even a little alcohol. There was a lot of whining and whimpering which made Victor wince, but they needed to make sure the cut didn’t get infected. Luckily, it was a shallow wound, and as soon as the cloth bandage was securely in place, his new pet was limping around the outside of his little cabin, sniffing at the empty flowerbeds.

“Makkachin,” he murmured. Then, a little louder, “Makkachin!”

The dog, newly christened Makkachin, seemed to realize that he was addressing her. It pleased him immensely, how she took to her new name. How her tail wagged and how she jumped up on her hind legs to look up at him.

“Good girl,” Victor cooed. He felt giddy, bubbly with happiness. A dog! A  _ dog _ . He loved dogs, and it had been so long since he’d met a friendly one. He didn’t blame the strays around the docks for snapping at him, but it was nice to have a companion who wouldn’t try to fight him for his food. At least, probably not - but speaking of, “How would you like something to eat, Makkachin?”

She clearly recognized the word  _ eat _ , as her excited and half-leaping, even on an injured paw, made obvious. Victor laughed, a low, rich sound that was so alien to his ears that he wondered if it might’ve been coming from someone else.

Oh, Yuuri was in for a surprise the next time he visited.

* * *

 Even before things were bad, Yuuri didn’t particularly like fencing with Celestino. He knew why Celestino did it - Yuuri was naturally drawn to graceful body movements, given his background in dance and performance. It was a way to keep him occupied and to use his talents in a way that wasn’t unseemly. After all, only whores and actors practiced dance regularly.

Dancing was demanding, a burning strain in his thighs and the elastic stretch from his fingertips to his toes, but there was a graceful fluidity to it. Unlike fencing, which was bursts of pain against the uncovered bits of his skin, red wrapped knuckles, and deep bruises.

“Be lighter on your feet, Yuuri,” Celestino snapped, and Yuuri twirled just out of the way as a thrust nearly skewered through his padding.

Celestino lamented the way the art of swordplay had fallen out of favor. There used to be an art to it, he sighed, and the nobles would duel to win the hearts of a lovely maiden or gentleman at court.

When Yuuri made a wrong move, Celestino would snarl and spit and jab back twice as hard. By the end of their training sessions, Yuuri was  always a bruised, battered mess.

As bad as fighting was, this time, it was the aftermath that worried Yuuri the most. His hands shook as he pulled his padding off, then slowly removed his exercise clothes. Scabs were already forming on his fingers, which left little droplets of blood on his clothing.

Celestino tended to the injuries he’d caused with even more interest than usual.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Yuuri said with a shaky laugh. “I’d say you liked hurting me.”

Celestino didn’t say anything. His eyes flashed, and Yuuri’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He ached to pull his hands away and have Phichit bandage him up, but that wouldn’t… That wouldn’t do. It would just make Celestino angry.

_ How much longer _ ? Yuuri pleaded, watching the way Celestino’s hands worked up and down his arms. He was stripped down to his underwear, and it was cold.

“Yuuri,” Celestino said, voice low and husky. “When will you let me sleep with you?”

Yuuri swallowed down his biting comment,  _ since when is that up to me? _

“What do you mean?” Yuuri stammered. “Haven’t you been, I mean, haven’t we been…?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Celestino snapped. “I know you’ve screwed around before. You know, one of the nobles at court was mocking me. Insinuating that he’d slept with you. It seems like the only person you haven’t spread your legs for is me.”

“Didn’t know you wanted more,” Yuuri practically whispered. He was frozen, rooted to the spot in fear. “Didn’t realize you wanted me until just a little bit ago.”

“That didn’t mean you needed to fuck your way through half of court,” Celestino snarled.

“I didn’t,” Yuuri cried, desperately, the beginnings of anger beginning to bubble inside him. “I would’ve before now, but I didn’t know you wanted me, I mean, I thought you considered yourself my  _ uncle- _ ”

Celestino grabbed his bare shoulders hard enough to bruise, and he swung Yuuri around. Yuuri gasped in fear and flinched, violently, screwing his eyes shut.

“Let me make that up to you now,” Celestino hissed, breath low, ghosting over Yuuri’s lips. Then, suddenly, Yuuri felt hot, wet lips pressed to his own, and he opened his mouth pliantly. “Soon, Yuuri,” Celestino said in between kisses, “Soon, you’ll give yourself to me.”

Yuuri kept his eyes closed and went very limp.

* * *

 “Yuuri, are you with me?”

With a gasp, Yuuri’s world came back into focus. They were walking along a lovely, tree-lined corridor, a far cry from the district they’d been in before.

“Wha?” He stammered, very confused.

“We’re walking to speak to another friend of mine,” Phichit explained, patiently. “It’s nearly three in the afternoon.”

Yuuri blinked. He seemed to have disappeared into his own head as Celestino was kissing him, and the gap between then and now was a blank spot, like he hadn’t even lived it.

To Yuuri’s surprise, Phichit was leading him to the guard’s barracks, just outside the palace fences. At the edge of a clearing, in front of a white marble building with words written in a strange ancient script and marble statues holding scales, stood a beautiful young man with thick eyebrows and wavy black hair. At their approach, his eyes flitted upwards for a moment. Then, he quickly looked away and began to walk along the path.

Yuuri supposed that had just been a guardsman on a break, but Phichit turned in his direction and sped up a little to fall into stride beside him.

“Seung-gil,” Phichit said, softly.

“What’s so important that this couldn’t wait until Friday?” Seung-gil hissed, clearly irritated.

“Showing a new recruit the ropes,” Phichit said, sounding affronted. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Seung-gil’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. Then, he turned to Yuuri and seemed to pierce him with a searching gaze. “You’re Lord Cialdini’s kid. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh?” Yuuri said, blushing.

“Yeah, you look like as much of a wimp as Phichit made you seen.”

“Seung-gil,” Phichit gasped, shooting a horrified glance in Yuuri’s direction. “I never-”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri rushed to assure him, though he wasn’t exactly sure what had driven all of Phichit’s cohort to seemingly dislike him. “It’s okay.”

“Seung-gil is one of the most important people in our group,” Phichit explained. “He’s pretty high up in the military chain of command. A lot of loyal followers.”

“Just in case, you always tell me,” Seung-gil said with the hint of what could be a smile.

“Just in case?” Yuuri asked, nervous.

Seung-gil looked at him. At first, Yuuri had thought that was an expression of annoyance - now, it seems that might just be his natural resting face.

“We want a bloodless revolution,” Seung-gil explained. Then, he shot a glance at Phichit, “Well, mostly. But we can’t afford to bank on that.”

Yuuri let out a shaky breath. Oh.  _ Oh _ .

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you say at one time,” Phichit laughed. “Thank you, Seung-gil. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Seung-gil nodded and veered off, back towards the marble building behind them.

Yuuri blinked. He’d expected the meeting to be longer.

“Seung-gil isn’t a sociable type,” Phichit explained. “I’m showing you around so you know the key faces - that way, if someone tries to impersonate any one of us, you can pick the real person from the fake.”

Yuuri hadn’t realized that was at all an issue. He shook his head.

“How did you find these people?” he asked, impressed and a little confused.

“Oh, here and there,” Phichit said, mischievously. “I need to keep some of my secrets. Seung-gil and I go way back, though. Back to when I was a little kid.”

“Ah,” Yuuri nodded. He turned, watching Seung-gil’s retreating form. “Is he from Buyeo, too?”

Phichit snorted. “Yes. He’s from Buyeo. Or, well, his family is. He was born here, like you.”

Yuuri frowned. “It must’ve taken a lot to make him turn traitor from a job like this.”

“He never wanted to be a soldier,” Phichit sighed. “His parents were a lot like yours. They came here and opened a business, but couldn’t stay afloat after King Alain passed the decree bringing slaves from the north and east here to ‘work.’”

Yuuri blinked. If he thought back, really really hard, he remembered something like that. The sudden influx of people with ghostly pale skin and light hair, of others with darker skin and features a little more like his.  _ Barbarians and heathens,  _ he remembered reading in a book Celestino had laid out in front of him, long ago.  _ With strange gods and stranger customs. _

“So,” Phichit was continuing, “When he was fourteen, he signed up to work as a soldier. There are always jobs as a guardsman - and they made it so there’s barely any other choice.”

“Why didn’t you sign up, then?” Yuuri asked, confused.

Phichit looked pained. “I couldn’t. No papers, remember?”

“Ah,” Yuuri said, sympathetic, putting his hand on Phichit’s shoulder, running his thumb gently over his scar. “Right. The accident.”

Phichit blinked at him. Then, he said, slowly, “Yuuri… Have you really never put two and two together?”

“Um,” Yuuri said, “About what?”

Phichit gave him a very strange look. Then, he sighed, and said, “No… It’s not your fault you don’t know.”

He shook his head, and the moment had passed before Yuuri could even comprehend what had happened.

* * *

 Makkachin curled up by the foot of Victor’s bed, her chest rising and falling peacefully as the glowing red of sunset stretched it’s legs through the window in Victor’s room and disappeared. There was a chipped bowl in the corner full of water, and bits of fur became the first indication that Makkachin was there to stay.

Victor had no idea how King JJ would react to the dog - it was pure faith that made Victor think he’d ignore Makkachin as he ignored every slave’s actions. For now, though, he was very happy.

Sleep came quickly but didn’t stay, a fleeting kiss from a star-crossed lover, interrupted by dreams. Sometimes, they were nightmares, and Victor could take a few moments to calm himself, gasping in bed and gripping at his beating heart. Others, night terrors, and there was nothing he could do but scream himself hoarse and wait for the tremors to pass, to break like a fever.

Nightmares about losing Yuuri, about the Count, about the docks, about his first master - each part of his life adding to the parade of bad memories.

Death might be the first good sleep of his life, Victor thought.

It must’ve been past midnight when the door creaked open - it was pitch black and still as death through his window. Victor wouldn’t have woken if not for the growling, and he blinked to take in the low lamplight, the shuffling from the foot of his bed.

He didn’t know who it was - they rarely introduced themselves. Victor groaned and slid the blankets to the side.

Then, as though in the blink of an eye, there was a dark smudge of movement. It was like shadows fighting each other. Makkachin growled and barked at the intruder, nipping at his legs. He screamed at the hellishly black figure with flashing black eyes biting at him, stumbled, and fell onto his ass by Victor’s bed.

Victor barely caught the furiously raised fist and leapt off the bed, tackling the noble before he could strike.

“ _ Don’t, _ ” he cried out, “ _ Don’t hit her. _ ”

The blow came down on him instead, and in the dark Victor couldn’t move quick enough to cover his face before the noble’s fist connected with it. There was a sharp  _ crack, _  and Victor’s head swam as the tang of blood burst in his mouth.

Makkachin barked louder, echoing in the small room.

The noble hit Victor once more, for good measure, and then fled into the night, leaving his lamp casting a strange orange glow onto Makkachin’s dark fur, Victor’s shaking hands.

Victor’s face ached from being hit. There was a dull thud of pain on his chest, a sharp sting at his lip where it had split against his teeth, but nothing permanent. He sighed, relieved, and slumped back against the bed.

Makkachin padded up to him, sniffing at his chest and neck and face, pressing her wet nose into his warm skin. A surge of affection rushed through Victor, enough to prevent him from worrying what this stranger would say. If Victor was lucky, he’d be too embarrassed to tell the truth.

“Good girl,” Victor murmured, pressing his fist to his lip to stop the bleeding, “Good girl, Makkachin.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise another update next week, but I'm gonna try my best for two weeks from now if not. I really, REALLY need to start giving you the payoff for the angst I've been building up for what, 20 chapters?
> 
> There will definitely be some action next time around. Stay tuned!!

Yuri dared to believe that with Victor gone, the Count would disappear back into the sewer he’d crawled out of. It would be like nothing had ever happened - his favorite slave was gone, so why would he come back? There was no more long silver hair, no more sweet smile masking shaking hands. The Count had always sworn no one satisfy him like Victor could, and Yuri would watch the flush of false confidence on Victor’s cheeks when he heard that. 

He’d heard the Count screaming at Yakov through his office door. Yakov had no choice, Yuri knew, and the Count was being petulant, an overgrown child who’d lost his favorite toy. 

It was always funny, watching the big, powerful men snap at each other because of who they could and couldn’t fuck. What, was it too hard to find a willing partner? Of course, the Count couldn’t properly get it up, he relied on his own personal slave to be his surrogate - maybe that affected his chances. 

Yuri would have laughed at that if the Count didn’t strike such deadly fear into him. 

Seeing him walking up and down the halls, his big, muscled slave behind him, scared Yuri like nothing else. One glance and Yuri could feel his breath constricting in his chest, his hands start to shake. 

The sex he’d had since coming to the Ice Castle was bad, consistently bad, but other than his lack of choice in the matter it hadn’t been traumatizing. It wasn’t the sex itself but rather how he was forced to do it - until the Count showed him how awful it could be.

And now, the Count seemed determined to find his new favorite pet to torture. He’d gone through some of the slaves, leaving them broken and babbling in his private room, but none had been there for more than one session. Yuri prayed, he  _ prayed _ that the Count had already taken his turn with him and didn’t need another try. 

In the baths, Yuri shivered through cold water and sweet smelling soap. 

It had become a ritual, a sort of decompression before and after. Even with Victor, the precious, private moments they had together became sacred spaces. Yuri was not religious - but the soft silver of Victor’s wet hair as he ran a comb covered in sweet-smelling oils through it became his sacred texts, the gentle grip of Victor’s fingers as he massaged the pains from his legs and arms his hymns. It was the only time that anyone touched his body innocently, only to make him feel nice, not because they wanted something more.

Minami, Guang Hong, and Yuri made their way to the baths after a long night’s work. As they passed the foyer, they saw a very frustrated looking Count and his equally annoyed slave. Yuri turned his gaze, hoping the Count hadn’t noticed him.

The Count moved, and Yuri nearly stumbled into Minami in his terror. He moved into the back hallway and circled the group, stalking his prey, and he stopped right before Yuri. 

_ If I can’t see him, he can’t see me _ .

The old adage from his childhood swirled in Yuri’s head as he desperately stared at the floor, shaking so hard he was sure everyone could feel him through the floor.

A gnarled hand reached out to touch his face, to brush a few strands of hair from in front of his eyes. 

“Did your hair get longer?” The Count asked, voice low with wonder. 

Yuri froze. He let out a noncommittal shrug, not daring to meet his gaze, and he tugged Minami forward, trying not to run. He didn’t look back, but he could feel the Count’s gaze on his back all the way down the hallway. 

_ Did your hair get longer? _

“I need,” he whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

He veered off right at the baths’ entrance and ran down the hallway as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. 

Victor always kept a pair of scissors in the vanity drawer, Yuri knew. He swung into the backstage area, dusty with lack of use post the winter festival, and pulled the drawers out one by one until he found them. 

Yuri bunched his hair into a ponytail and took the little sewing scissors, just about to snip when-

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Yuri’s head snapped up. The Count looked down at him, almost lazily, relishing in how Yuri reacted to seeing him. What was he still doing here?

“Cutting my hair,” Yuri whispered, shaking. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” The Count hissed. “Your hair is far too pretty to be cut.”

“Yakov wants me to cut it,” Yuri lied. 

The Count snorted. 

Panicked, in an awful, terror-stricken daze, Yuri snapped, “I’m going to cut it and you can’t stop me.”

The Count stared at him, then he stepped forward and grabbed Yuri’s arm, squeezing it tight. It was hard to breathe. Yuri’s whole body shook. 

“If I come back and see that you’ve cut your hair,” The Count murmured, almost nonchalant, “I’ll cut off your hand.”

Yuri clasped his hand in terror. The Count released him and backed away.

That was the end of that conversation.

With hands shaking and breath coming out shallow, he wandered numbly back to the dormitories and collapsed onto his bed to stifle his sobs.

* * *

 

Yuuri’s hands shook as he slipped over to Celestino’s room, the dull lamplight casting frightening shadows along the hallway. 

He knocked once, then let himself in. 

Celestino was there, on the bed, already in his nightclothes. He opened his arms to Yuuri, and Yuuri fell into them without hesitation, no matter how much he hated it. 

“I told you I’d make today up to you,” Celestino murmured, pulling a thin silk ribbon out from his pocket.

Yuuri tried not to throw up. He was pliant, a doll, letting Celestino position him exactly as he needed. It was hard, as he lost the use of his arms, tied to the wooden headboard. 

It was a relief when Celestino flipped him over so he was on his hands and knees, night shirt bunched up around his waist. At least then he could pretend, he didn’t have to see. His mouth was everywhere, leaving cooling wet spots on his skin. Yuuri disappeared into his own mind as Celestino had his way with him, moving his legs around to taste what he wanted.

After, sweaty and satisfied, Celestino pulled back. He untied the silk at Yuuri’s wrists and brought him forward, folding him into his chest. Yuuri gasped, faintly registering that it was over from the sticky sweat trickling down his legs and the wetness on his stomach. 

Yuuri wondered, vaguely, where Phichit was. His whole body trembled, a pit of nausea churning in his gut. 

“Come,” Celestino murmured against his hair, “Bathe with me.”

Yuuri didn’t think there was a way to refuse. He let Celestino lead him to the bathroom and let the hot water scald his skin until he felt clean again. There would be no chance to look over the papers in Celestino’s drawer tonight, not with Celestino’s hands holding him at every chance, his eyes glued to his back with every step he took. 

_ I’m sorry Phichit,  _ he thought.  _ I’m sorry, Victor. _

* * *

 

_ Yuuri was running, running, running. His chest heaved, his legs burned, his breathing came in heavy, aching gulps. There was someone behind him, he knew, but he didn’t dare look back. Ahead of him was a white light, behind him only his pursuer and danger and fear.  _

_ The scenery shifted, and suddenly he was running down a long corridor. It was a rich, wooded red, with gilded portraits on the walls and heavy lantern light leading his way. There was someone at the end, someone with long silver hair and an agonizingly sad smile. _

_ “Victor!” Yuuri tried to yell, but no sound came out. “Victor, help me!” _

_ Victor was crying. There was a thick, heavy chain around his neck, and his feet were bloody and torn apart. He couldn’t run to him, but he raised a hand, reaching desperately for Yuuri from so far away. _

_ “I’m coming,” Yuuri gasped. He could barely breathe. “I’m coming for you.” _

_ Suddenly, Yuuri tripped, and he sprawled out on the wooden floor. Someone’s hand gripped his hair, yanking hard, and he flipped him over. Yuuri stared up into Celestino’s hard gray eyes in terror. _

_ “Celestino?” Yuuri whimpered, “I thought… I didn’t know you wanted…” _

_ Hands closed around his throat, and Yuuri gagged. He scrambled to push Celestino off, but Celestino was a statue above him. His fingers bled from the strain of scratching Celestino’s arms, but the hands at his throat only squeezed tighter. _

_ Everything was going black, and Yuuri gasped to take in desperate sips of air. Above the ringing in his ears, he heard Victor crying, pleading, “Stop, stop, please-” _

_ Stop, Yuuri wanted to scream as Celestino squeezed the life from him, stop, stop, you’re hurting me, leave me alone, leave Victor alone- _

* * *

 

Minami was asleep. Guang Hong sat up in bed, staring out into the distance. He’d missed out on the nightly washing, and now everything felt  _ wrong _ . He could still feel the Count’s eyes on him, and he half expected to wake with his body over him, his hands threading through his long hair.

“I don’t get why they like it,” Guang Hong murmured.

Yuri almost growled at him to  _ shut up _ , but there was enough of a twinge of curiosity to stay his tongue.

“Like what?” he whispered back, voice cracking.

“Sex,” Guang Hong said, matter of factly.

Yuri was surprised enough that he was pulled out of his fear, just for a moment.

“I dunno, because it’s fun?” Yuri said, bemused.

Guang Hong wrinkled his nose, looking unconvinced.

“I mean, it’s hard to tell when the guys here don’t let you come, but I mean, it can be fun.”

Guang Hong settled back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve never done that.”

“What, had sex?” Yuri asked, bemused. “Outside of here, I mean.”

“That,” Guang Hong admitted, “Also the other thing.”

Yuri blinked, utterly lost.

“You know,” Guang Hong said, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “Never, um.”

Suddenly, it dawned on him, and Yuri couldn’t contain his horror. “You’ve never  _ come? _  Holy fuck, Guang Hong, seriously?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Guang Hong cried, burying his face in his hands, “I mean, I’ve been here for a bit, and I don’t see what the big deal is!”

Minami stirred on his bed, let out a fearful whine, and both Yuri and Guang Hong quieted immediately, watching Minami settle back into sleep.

“Holy fuck,” Yuri breathed, “Holy shit. Never…”

“Stop it,” Guang Hong sniffed, turning onto his side in frustration. Then, curiosity seemed to get the best of him, and he said, “You’re so young… How, how did you know what to do? Have you even… Had sex before?”

“I’m almost an adult,” Yuri snapped, affronted.

Guang Hong looked at him skeptically. “ _ I’m _  almost an adult. You’re not even sixteen.”

“Shut up,” Yuri snapped. Then, he softened, and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I had. I dunno, it was fun. Me and the other guys my age, messing around when our parents weren’t around. Not that our parents were around that often anyway…”

Yuri was sure many people would label his promiscuity as  _ bad parenting _ , which was hard to argue with when his mom was such a shit parent. He’d be damned if he attributed anything he liked to her, though.

Guang Hong looked interested, so Yuri continued.

“I had this boyfriend, too. He was maybe two years older, two and a half? It was good, with him,” he explained, smiling fondly. “He was so conscientious that he’d end up wasting half a bottle of oil just to make sure I wasn’t too tight. That shit was expensive, too - that’s how I knew he cared.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not like these fuckers.”

“Yeah,” Guang Hong agreed, “They really don’t… They don’t seem to know what they’re doing.”

“Or care,” Yuri snorted. “Screwing around was never… It was never a problem, for me. I mean, luckily I couldn’t get pregnant. I kind of got a reputation, and my grandpa definitely tried to keep an eye on me after that, but he was just looking out for me.” His eyes clouded over, sadly. “I mean, it wasn’t a problem until my mom racked up too many debts, and decided I should pay them off for her.”

“Did you ever think,” Guang Hong asked, “That you might’ve enjoyed it here?”

Yuri closed his eyes.

_ You know his reputation, this is the best choice for him. Maybe he’ll even enjoy it _ .

He’d never seen his grandpa so furious. Yuri didn’t think he’d ever forget the rage on his face, the fire in his eyes as he spat his mother’s words back at her, the way he grabbed Yuri by the arm and hissed, “Even once he’s out, you’ll never see your son again.”

“No,” he said, flatly.

* * *

 There had been a cold winter shower the night before as the temperature just barely hovered above freezing. The morning was cold, and small puddles had solidified to black ice along the paved walkways nearest the castle.

Victor left Makkachin sleeping peacefully in his room and prayed she was trained enough not to destroy the place while he went to attend to his morning duties.

As always, he was to sit like a doll, bored out of his mind, while the king discussed relevant kingdom issues.

“Why is lumber production in the northern territories down so much?” JJ asked, sharply.

“Ah,” said one noble, nervously. “We’re having problems with the labor supply, your highness.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“Illness, mostly, exhaustion - our numbers are running low.”

A shock of anger washed over Victor like a bucket of icy water. He forgot, sometimes. His home still existed, up in the frozen north, with its rugged mountains and fir trees that produced the sweetest sap.

Anger gave way to despair. He wondered, sometimes. What if his mother hadn’t died those years ago, and he hadn’t been taken away to the mainland? Nights being fucked on harsh, cold floors would have just been replaced by nights with bloody fingers and arms aching from labor.

JJ appeared to notice the way he slumped against the wall, silent and solemn and shaking.

“Then, of course,” the noble babbled on, “There was that strike, last year, and of course we needed to execute many of our best workers because they tried-”

“Enough,” JJ snapped. “If this doesn’t get fixed soon, I’m going to take a trip over to the territories to see for myself what the problem is.”

* * *

 

Yuuri gasped awake, cold sweat down his back, trembling violently as he took in deep gulps of air. A nightmare, he soothed himself, it was just a horrible, horrible nightmare. 

Beside him, Celestino stirred, and Yuuri’s heart rate spiked again.

“What’s going on?” he grumbled.

“Strange dream,” Yuuri said, voice shaky even to his own ears. Celestino didn’t respond, so Yuuri closed his eyes and tried desperately to calm himself. A few tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes, and he let out a low moan, burying his head in his hands. 

He needed to save Victor. Time was working against him. He’d been so, so slow, so useless,  _ useless _ .

An involuntary spasm ran through his body. He needed to go through that drawer. Do something, anything.

_ Useless _ .

“Celestino,” Yuuri whispered.

Celestino made an annoyed sound, indicating he was still awake.

“Celestino,” Yuuri continued, “I’m going to make a cup of tea. To calm myself. Do you want one?”

_ Please say yes,  _ Yuuri pleaded,  _ please, please, please _ .

Celestino sighed. “So long as you’re going to keep me up,” he growled, “I might as well.”

Yuuri could have wept with joy. 

“Okay,” he whispered, trying once again to keep the shaking out of his voice.

He ran downstairs, grabbing the lamp from the bedside table. Everyone was asleep, and his footsteps echoed in the long hallway, eerily like the one from his dream. He set the kettle up for tea, then, as it was boiling, tiptoed over to the medicine cabinet. 

Celestino’s cough syrup was a sweet, sugary mix of alcohol and opium. Yuuri knew from experience that when he took it, he was out in an instant. He took two tea cups, filled half of one with the syrup, then added hot water, tea, and an immense amount of sugar to mask the medicinal taste. His hands shook.

What if Celestino noticed? What if he asked about the strange, bittersweet taste? 

Yuuri bit his lip and filled his own tea cup with the syrup and tea mixture as well. That way, just in case-

“Celestino,” Yuuri whispered, opening the door delicately, tea cups balanced in his hands, “I brought you your tea.”

Celestino smiled at him. He took a sip of tea. Instantly, his face screwed up in displeasure, and Yuuri’s heart froze in his chest. 

“It’s so sweet,” he snapped. 

“I-I thought you liked sweet,” Yuuri stammered, trying to sound convincing. 

“Give me yours,” Celestino said, narrowing his eyes.

Yuuri held his own cup out with trembling hands, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that he’d filled both cups. 

Celestino sipped, and he rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve never corrected your terrible tea drinking habits before,” he said with a good natured snort.

Yuuri laughed breathlessly, holding his own tea cup in his hands and bringing it to his lips in what he hoped was a convincing mimicry of drinking. 

It wasn’t enough. Celestino eyed his mostly full cup suspiciously, and Yuuri took a deep gulp, trying not to gag on the sickly sweet tea, the bitter drugged aftertaste. They finished their tea in silence, Yuuri’s heart beating wildly. Celestino placed his empty cup on the bedside table, yawning deeply, and curling up back in bed.

“I’ll join you soon,” Yuuri murmured, “Let me just wash up again.”

Celestino didn’t respond. Yuuri ran to the bathroom, turned on the tap to mask the sound, and sunk to his knees to force the tea back up. He vomited, and vomited, until his stomach cramped, completely empty. He stared back at the closed door, illuminated lowly by the lamp on the counter, gasping for breath as the familiar ache throbbed in his throat. 

It had been a long, long time since he’d done that. Not since after Minako died. Yuuri gripped at his throat, willing it to stop hurting. He closed his eyes and calmed himself as he poured from the bucket of water by the toilet, washing away the evidence of himself throwing up.

After a few moments, he had the strength to emerge. 

“Celestino,” Yuuri whispered. No sound, so he hissed, louder, “Celestino!”

Nothing but loud, rumbling snores. Yuuri took a deep, shaking breath, wiping his sticky mouth, and brought the light to the Celestino’s work dresser. 

Yuuri opened the dresser with the iron key, and he made sure to take careful stock of every paper’s position before shifting anything around.

He still wasn’t sure quite what to look for, so he spent some time reading headlines, opening reports, and sifting through junk by the dim lamp light. 

A quiet, unassuming letter sat underneath a pile of envelopes, and with a heavy heart, Yuuri picked it up and unfolded the paper edges. 

_ Lord Cialdini, _

_ I wanted to write to personally thank you for the information. That Altin kid and his merry band of miscreants has been a thorn in our side for too long, and quite frankly, it’s an embarrassment that the King has let him parade around for so long unchecked. With your help, that won’t be the case after Thursday.  _

_ Best, _

_ Lord ------- _

Yuuri clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle his shout of joy. He carefully memorized each line of the letter, from the location to the date it was sent. Then, hands still shaking, he slid the letter back under the stack where he’d found it and took a step back. 

“Celestino?” he called, softly. Nothing, nothing but a soft snoring sound. Yuuri thanked his lucky stars and slid out the door to Phichit’s room. This couldn’t wait, it  _ couldn’t _ . 

The hallways glowed eerily in the lamplight, dark and cold just like in his bad dream. Yuuri turned around, once, afraid that Celestino was just a step behind, chasing him. In the back of his memory, he still felt hands clenching around his throat, felt the icy pit of terror as his lungs ached for air they couldn’t take in. 

At the creak of his door opening, Phichit snapped awake. It had been a long time since Yuuri had visited Phichit late at night, under the cover of darkness, and he had forgotten how quickly his friend brought himself back to full, alert attention at a few slight sounds. Yuuri had never asked about that before, and barely even wondered at it, but now that fact joined a slew of others that made Yuuri unsure of who Phichit was, and who he had been before. 

“It’s me,” Yuuri said, breathless. 

Phichit cocked his head to the side, clearly not sure why Yuuri was visiting him now. “Are you alright?” he asked, nervous.

Yuuri nodded. “It’s Otabek. One of the Lords at court is planning to arrest him.”

“What?” Phichit asked, sharply, sitting up very straight. “How? When?” 

“I’m not sure,” Yuuri bit his lip. “He said something about ‘after Thursday,’ but that’s it. I didn’t know how to get more information, but he seemed so certain he’d be able to stop him for good.” 

Phichit swore, softly. For a moment, Yuuri worried, and the whole weight of their movement pressed against him. What would they do if Otabek was arrested? It might be the end of everything he’d worked on, and what would happen to Yuri?

“Is that everything the letter said?” Phichit implored, gripping Yuuri’s hand. 

Yuuri nodded, miserably. “Otabek’s been a thorn in their side for too long, and hopefully that won’t be the case after Thursday,” he half-quoted. 

Phichit took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said, “Okay. I know how to find Otabek. I’ll get the information to him. Yuuri, you’re sure Celestino doesn’t know you found this?”

Yuuri nodded. “He’s completely out.”

“He’s not a heavy sleeper,” Phichit said, uncertainly. 

“I drugged him,” Yuuri blurted out. “I put cough syrup and a ton of sugar into his tea. I don’t think… He drank the whole thing, so I don’t think he noticed.”

Phichit grinned, broadly. Yuuri could see something like pride in his gaze, in the darkness.

Yuuri blew out a breath, suddenly aware of the tension seeping out of his body. “I’ll go back to him,” he whispered, “just to be safe.”

“You did well, Yuuri,” Phichit assured him. “Get some sleep.” 

In the master bedroom, Yuuri sunk back onto the soft mattress. Celestino’s chest rose and fell, his breathing slow and deep, body limp like a doll. The tea cups flickered, the lamplight glinting off their soft, gilded china. Hands from his memories pressed against his throat.

It was going to be another sleepless night, then. Yuuri sighed and tried to get comfortable as a strange itch crawled over his skin, tingling where it touched Celestino’s.

 

 

* * *

 

_ Did your hair get longer _ ?

Yuri gasped awake, and he let out a low moan of fear as he remembered. Fiery licks of pain, down his back and legs. Cold, cruel eyes - the Count sitting there while he directed his slave with methodical, almost mechanical detachedness. Curled up afterwards, feeling like it would never feel good again, like every bit of him that craved pleasure had been fused shut behind thick iron doors, and that there was something rotten and reeking between his legs. 

_ Did your hair get longer? _

It was too much. Too much. Yuri didn’t know how much more he could take.

* * *

 

Celestino was sick. The next morning when a servant came to wake him, he let out a low groan, a cold sweat broken out on his brow. 

Yuuri stared at him in terror, knowing with awful clarity that it had been the sugar, or the cough syrup, or the awful combination thereof. Oh, he was going to be found out. 

“D-do you need a doctor?” Yuuri squeaked, terrified. Then, he cursed himself - would a doctor know how to recognize these symptoms?

“What’s happening to me?” Celestino hissed. 

“Um,” Yuuri said, hands shaking.

At that moment, though, the door slid open, and a very pale faced Phichit slumped against it. 

“Oh, Celestino,” he wailed, “I feel awful. It must’ve been the fish we had for dinner last night, I should’ve known better than to trust that fishmonger-”

Phichit’s gaze slid to Yuuri and, with Celestino moaning in agony on the bed, hands clasped over his stomach, he winked. 

Yuuri’s eyes widened as he realized what Phichit was doing.

_ Oh Phichit, _ Yuuri thought,  _ I love you _ .


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liiiiittle bit of action in this chapter, finally!! Then right back to the ~feelings.~ Also, my attempts at writing a big rousing speech - hopefully it's okay. :P 
> 
> These past few chapters have been very Yuuri/Phichit and Victor/JJ + nobles shenanigans focused, but there will be a Yuuri/Victor reunion either next chapter or the chapter after. It's all outlined, just gotta find the time to write. The weeks really have been flying by - I blink and suddenly it's been a month with no updates at all! 
> 
> I think maybe, once this fic is all written out, I'm going to go back and revise parts of it so there's more worldbuilding earlier on and these last chapters can focus less on setup and more on actual action scenes and important plot points. I definitely feel like the pacing is a little off, but I can't just toss the Big Events at you without the appropriate buildup or it'd feel rushed. :c Ahh, the trials of being a writer. 
> 
> Also, hello place names, finally! Proper nouns, what a concept!

“Hey,” Mila hissed, creeping into the boy’s dormitories in the early light of morning. “Wow, you look awful.”

Yuri hissed like a cat and buried his face underneath his scratchy blanket, pressed deeper into the lumpy pillow. 

“Wow,” Mila said, affronted. “And here I brought these as a treat for you.” 

Yuri had half a mind to knock whatever was in her hand out and onto the floor. He’d barely slept last night, plagued half by nightmares and half by insomnia. 

“I stole them from Yakov’s room,” Mila wheedled. 

Yuri groaned and peeked out from underneath the blankets. In Mila’s hands was a jar of bright pink pickled beets, just like the ones his grandpa made for wintertime feasts. 

“Oh, shit,” Yuri gasped, reaching out for the delicious treats. Beets had become a bit of a sensation in their adoptive country, due to their bright pink color and apparent health benefits. Yuri saw native-born citizens with pink streaks dripping from their lips like lipstick as they roasted them, sauted them, stewed them with olives and figs to eat. The delicacy of pickled beets, though, he’d rarely seen outside of his grandpa’s kitchen. 

Mila popped open the jar with ease. She picked one up and bit into it, letting out a low, sensual moan at the taste. Yuri’s mouth watered, and he knocked into the jar in his rush to grab a beet. Mila shrieked as the bright pickling liquid, dark pink from the vinegar and beet color, dripped down the side. She pressed her mouth to the little dribbles immediately so they didn’t drip onto the floor. 

“Yakov will kill us if he finds out we stole his shit,” she hissed. 

Yuri gulped, nodding, and was much more gentle this time around. These beets weren’t quite as good as his grandpa’s, but they could satisfy his craving for a taste of home - something he didn’t realize he’d had so strongly until now.

“Why the  _ fuck _ ,” Yuri mumbled around his food, “did you steal from Yakov?”  

“He had, like, ten jars of these,” Mila sniffed. “He won’t miss one.”

Yuri looked at her as if to say,  _ give me a real answer _ . 

Mila sighed. “I’m just sick of working here. You know, I thought it was a treat that he offered me the position. I’d get a bed, a steady stream of drugs, two square meals a day. And yeah, it was better than the alternative, which was your current position, but I’m still stuck with no pay and no other options. My contract was for seven years, Yuri. Seven years.” 

Yuri couldn’t  _ quite _ muster the sympathy for her. It sounded like an awful situation, but his was so, so much worse than that. 

“Yakov gives people like us options that are  _ just _ that much better than the alternative,” Mila scowled. “Think of Victor. Think of what you heard about his last place. Gives poor, hopeless barbarians options that they’ll gleefully take over the other choice. They’re still awful options, though.”

“I hate that word,” Yuri sighed. “Barbarian.”

“Didn’t you call Victor that, once?” Mila raised her eyebrow.

“I called Victor a lot of things,” Yuri whined. “That doesn’t mean I meant them.” 

“He takes advantage of us because he knows we’ll get no mercy from the court system,” Mila continued, loudly, clearly annoyed that Yuri wasn’t as upset as she was. “He was born in Novgorod, but he’ll sell his own people out for money.” 

“That’s awful,” Yuri murmured. He supposed he’d never considered that Yakov could have had the same roots as many of his “workers.” Why would he, when Yakov was responsible for the nightly tortures they faced?

“Yes!” Mila shouted, waving her hands for emphasis. “And, he puts  _ their _ gods up everywhere. There’s that stupid altar to Ganymede, he’s always having special holiday events but for  _ their _ holidays, he-”

“Why would he put up our god?” Yuri snapped, annoyed. 

“Because,” Mila rolled her eyes, “The fact that ‘barbarians’ make up most of the whores is what draws people here. Why do you think you got picked for  _ here _ and not somewhere else?”

Yuri blinked. “I assumed it was a coincidence,” he mumbled.

Mila eyed him, pointedly. 

“So what?” Yuri said, dully, flopping against the pillow. “So you steal his pickled beets like it’ll make up for all of that?”

Mila’s scowl deepened. “You would have loved the idea a month ago.” 

That stung far more than Yuri was willing to let on. The mood felt so sour, so different than it had when Mila had first opened the jar. He glared back at Mila, reaching for another beet. Luckily, Mila wasn’t angry enough to keep them from him. 

Minami stirred next to them, awoken by their loud arguing. He wrinkled his nose, staring down at the jar with interest.

“It’s so pink,” he gasped. “It’s like the color of my hair.”

“Mm,” Yuri nodded. “Want one?”

Minami took one tentatively, biting and quickly wiping away the juice that dripped down his chin. 

“Oh,” he gasped, “Pickles!”

They ate beets in the morning light, Guang Hong sleeping soundly right beside them despite the noise. It wasn’t that Yuri wasn’t angry at Yakov, how could he not be angry at the spineless man who sold him out night after night? It was more that he didn’t realize what being angry at him would do. It wouldn’t get him free, it wouldn’t make his life easier. It wouldn’t get him any closer to eating pirozhki and pickled beets with his grandpa again. 

That’s… Probably what Victor thought, too. Yuri swore to himself, punching his pillow.

* * *

 

“Phichit,” Yuuri whispered as they wound their way through busy streets, “Phichit, did you talk to Otabek?”

Phichit nodded, lips pressed in a grim line. “He’s not going to let anything stop him.”

Yuuri nodded, nervously. “Are  _ we _ going to try to stop him?” he asked, jostled from side to side by people filling the streets.

“No,” Phichit sighed. “No. We need to support each other.” 

“So where are we going?”

“To make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, or worse, arrested,” Phichit sighed.

“Or worse, arrested?” Yuuri repeated, a little skeptically. 

Phichit nodded, gravely. “There’s a fate worse than death for anyone taken to Gallia.” 

Yuuri blinked. Right, the massive iron fortress right along the river, the black heart of the city. A still-standing medieval structure that loomed over the slums surrounding it, reminding the inhabitants they were just a stone’s throw from a cold, black, unending solitude.

Of course, that’s where Otabek would go.

Yuuri gulped. 

They pulled up to a big, open area with shoppers bustling about. Yuuri recognized this place - near the red light district, dank and dirty, where those who needed status but couldn’t afford private showings would purchase miserable, shaking slaves. 

The wooden stage by the temple doors, temple to the god of fertility Mimas, seemed innocuous enough. Yuuri knew, though, that every Sunday from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon, this is where the slaves would stand, naked and baking in the hot sun or freezing in the cold wind. Just like Yuuri knew they’d bring breeding slaves into Mimas’ temple, sometimes, to bless them. 

He swallowed. 

Phichit stopped and Yuuri nearly crashed into him. He motioned, quick, and they both ducked into a dark corner next to a fruit stall, in clear view of the wooden platform. Yuuri noticed them, then. Officers peppered throughout the crowds, far moreso than usual. They stuck out, dark blue and black uniforms against ratty clothing.

A worker distributed a few pamphlets that Yuuri couldn’t read from his spot, staring at the guards with distrust.

Someone was moving across the way. Yuuri noticed his black cloak, his covered face. He swept through the crowd with practiced ease, gripped the wooden pole of the platform, and leapt onto it. He dropped his cloak.

Yuuri gasped.

_ Otabek _ .

There was an immediate flurry of movement. A few officers moved forward, headed for the platform, and Yuuri gripped Phichit’s arm. 

Before they could reach him, though, a hundred, no - two hundred, men and women, dressed in grease-stained trousers and holding bats, clubs, all manner of homemade weapons, surrounded the stage, protecting Otabek. 

The officers, now in a semicircle in front of them, hesitated. Loud jeers came from behind them, from shoppers and shopkeepers. 

“It seems the power of the people is in full force,” Otabek called to the surrounding crowd.

The guards were outnumbered, ten to one. 

“We live under the rule of a corrupt king,” Otabek shouted, voice echoing over the deadly-quiet plaza, “And even more corrupt nobility. A king who cares more for his innermost circle than for the lives of his citizens. Under his rule, we’ve seen markets like these proliferate, spreading like the pox, an awful disease of our collective conscience.” 

The officers and Otabek’s forces were still at a standstill. The officers clearly had orders to stop this speech with all haste, but hadn’t expected such a turnout of angry, armed civilians. They twitched, hands clenched on their own clubs. 

Yuuri noticed the shoppers looking at Otabek in interest.

“Men and women we’ve grown up with, we’ve loved, bled dry - and when they can’t give any more, sold like cattle on miserable stands  _ just like this one _ . And for what? To furnish the gardens of the royal palace? Was forcing children from their homes continents away, in far away Novgorod and Sayama, not enough to satisfy their lust for blood?”

Across the way, Yuuri saw someone who made his blood run ice cold.

_ Celestino _ . Celestino, surrounded by armed guards, guards with guns, batons, bayonets. Yuuri dared a glance at Celestino’s face and saw shock, there, a snarling anger. He had expected this to be easy, much like the nervous-looking guards by the platform. 

Yuuri moaned in terror and hid further behind Phichit, though Celestino’s eyes were only on Otabek.

“No more,” Otabek roared, “So long as corruption reigns, they will continue to sell our children, our mothers, our fathers, our lovers-”

Yuuri didn’t see who started it. A loud crack of wood on metal echoed through the clearing, and chaos erupted. The group surrounding Otabek surged forward, the sounds of fighting, of hitting, the crack of clubs against bone filled the plaza. The officers surged forward, outnumbered but sporting the latest in weaponry.

Shoppers who had stopped to listen screamed and ran back, back and away from the throng. 

“Join me,” Otabek shouted, voice ringing out clear as a bell above the throng. “Workers of our beloved city. We’re stronger together. We’re stronger than the royal chains that bind us. The slaves’ struggle is our struggle, when at any moment we might be sold for failing to pay a debt-”

Below him, a loud shriek burst through the plaza. The fight was getting bigger, carts of fruits and wooden goods overturned as shopkeepers packed up desperately. More officers arrived, clubs striking without mercy as they ran towards Otabek and found a wall of armed citizens.

One officer by Celestino, with flashing brown eyes, reached for something at his side as he stalked forward, hidden by his coats. Yuuri gripped Phichit, pointed at him.

“Burn down these slave markets. Beat the overseers, break the slave’s chains, overthrow the king-”

Phichit let out a loud, shrieking whistle. It pierced the chaos like a bell. Yuuri swore, for a moment, that Celestino’s eyes flit to Phichit, and he grabbed him, pulling him to the cobblestones in terror. He had just enough time to be confused about what Phichit had done, when-

_ Bang _ . 

A crack like a gunshot burst through, louder than anything around, louder than the shouting and banging of clubs connecting. 

_ Bang _ .

Then came the screaming. 

It took Yuuri a minute to realize that the loud bang  _ had _ been a gunshot, and in the middle of the crowd kneeled the royal officer, blood oozing from his arm. His gun had fallen to the cobblestones and misfired, and there was a bullet now embedded into the wood a palms-length away from Otabek’s head. 

Otabek stared. He’d lost his momentum, eyes fixed on the bleeding body in front of him, and Yuuri saw for just a moment not a grizzled rebel leader but rather a shaking, scared teenager, and the breath left his body in a painful  _ whoosh _ . 

“You won’t kill me that easily,” Otabek snarled with a tremble in his voice, staring Celestino dead in the eye. 

Then, he picked up a bottle of grain alcohol and poured it over the platform, chaos mounting all around him. Officers looked up in horror, trying to find who had shot the guard, shoppers and workers tripped over themselves to get away.

“Otabek!” Yuuri heard someone call from below him.

Otabek lit a long, thin match and shouted, “No more slavery, no more free people forced into servitude, no more King JJ or Lord Cialdini! Burn the slave platforms with me!”

He dropped the match and leapt down. 

The slave platform burst into flame. 

The screaming grew louder, louder, louder. In the chaos, Celestino’s guards fired into the smoking mass of the platform, bullets ricocheting off or embedding into smouldering wood. Shouts of pain rang out, terror consumed the crowd, but Otabek’s band marched on, Otabek now at the lead. He was surrounded by his men, absolutely untouchable and no one… No one here seemed willing to help the frazzled guards who rode away desperately for backup.

After a few moments, Yuuri saw the twisting tendrils of smoke from up ahead, another slave platform set ablaze. 

“We need to get out of here,” Yuuri cried, gripping Phichit, who was staring at the fires Otabek was setting, far ahead. The plaza was clearing, people either joining in the march or fleeing the chaos. 

“I want to burn them with him,” Phichit whispered, shaking. Eyes huge and flint-hard.

“I do too,” Yuuri cried, “But it’s not safe, we need to be hidden,  _ we can’t be seen _ -”

The space between them and Celestino seemed to narrow, Celestino’s sharp gray eyes sweeping the plaza. The guards were arresting bystanders now, and a few blue-clad men with batons approached them menacingly. Celestino’s gaze was inches from them, and Yuuri scrambled back, whimpering.

A spark burst in Phichit’s dark eyes, and he gasped as though awaking from a dream.  He gripped a nearby cart to steady himself, but knocked it over, sending shawls and faux-silk scarves tumbling over Yuuri just as the officers approached.

Yuuri kicked out, vision blurred by a sheen of pink and white, and he caught the guard in the knees. Phichit grabbed his arm and pulled him away as the officer got his bearings, winded from the kick.

They rounded a corner, Yuuri desperately pulling the fabric off from on top of him, and disappeared from sight just as the fire bell began blaring through the streets.

* * *

 

“Did Celestino see us?” Yuuri shrieked, half crazy in his panic. “Phichit, did he see us?” 

Phichit gripped Yuuri’s wrists, pulling back where Yuuri’s fingernails were biting into the skin of his cheeks. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit murmured, “Look at me. Look me in the eye. That’s right, that’s right.”

Yuuri’s watery brown eyes met Phichit’s black ones, and he held his gaze desperately as the fire-bell ringing receded. 

“Breathe,” Phichit murmured, face inches from Yuuri’s, “Breathe. In for three, with me, one, two, three-” His chest puffed out with the deep inhale, and his voice was strained as he said, “Now out - one, two, three.”

Yuuri breathed with him, Phichit’s calloused fingers holding his wrists firmly, his grip gentle enough that Yuuri could pull away if he needed to. 

“You’re safe,” Phichit smiled, soft and serene. “Don’t worry, Yuuri, we’ve been good. You’ve been good. Celestino has no idea that you were here, today.” 

The panic softened, slightly, no longer a sharp pinprick in his heart. Phichit was so confident, despite being five full years younger, so self assured. A lump formed in Yuuri’s throat as he realized that, despite everything, he trusted him with every fiber of his being.

“Okay,” Yuuri whispered, “Okay.”

“Let’s get home, Yuuri,” Phichit said, pushing away a bit of Yuuri’s bangs, a black line over his eyes. “I need… I need to think some things through.

* * *

 

“There he is!”

Victor whirled around from where he was taking Makka on her early morning walk, and Makka peeked up from the bush she was sniffing with excitement. Fear pooled in Victor’s gut, a breathless and familiar ache that made him shake down to his bones.

A few nobles, many of whom had come visit him late at night, were stalking towards him. He quickly dropped his gaze, assumed a familiar and appeasing stance with hands clasped in front of him. 

“It’s that stupid  _ dog _ .” 

Makkachin, bless her doggy soul, didn’t seem to recognize that the strangers weren’t friendly, and she wagged her tail as they approached. The friendly curiosity turned to anger quickly, though, when one of the nobles gripped Victor by his flowing robes and jerked him forward. 

She let out a low growl and nipped at the heels of the man holding Victor, who yelped and jumped away.

“See what I mean?” the noble hissed, gesturing furiously. 

Makkachin was a fluffy, cuddly poodle - she looked just about as pampered as any of the nobles. The fear even her little nips and barks inspired would have been funny, Victor thought, if they didn’t have this much power over him.

It stung, bitterly, that he’d found  _ someone _ to protect him, and that infuriated the nobles enough to make them hurt her. 

Victor sunk to his knees, wrapped his arms around her, and pleaded, “She doesn’t mean any harm. Just… Just let me put her away, okay? She won’t get in your way again.” 

The noble pursed his lips. “And where did you get her?”

Victor blanched. “I, ah,” he murmured, “I found her.” 

It was the truth, but it sounded fake even to his own ears. The noble’s gaze hardened, and he gripped Victor’s robes again, pulling him up to his feet. The stretch in the fabric exposed the fading bruises and marks dotted in red smears along his skin, and he placed his hand over his collar to cover them up.

“They cut the hands off of free-born thieves,” the noble purred into Victor’s ear, ignoring the low growling from below him, the flash of bared teeth. “I wonder what they’ll take from a slave.”

His eyes shimmered cruelly, and he raked his gaze down Victor’s body, stopping right between his thighs.

Victor went white, icy cold. “Please,” he whispered, “I swear I didn’t steal her, she’s a good girl, I’ll let her go-”

“Aw, wait,” another noble whined, petulant and child-like, “Don’t cut him  _ there, _ I don’t want to fuck a eunuch.”

There was a chorus of agreement.

The noble gripping Victor grit his teeth and blew out a long, frustrated breath from between his yellow teeth. “Lord Giovanni,” he snapped, “It was a  _ bluff _ to get him to confess. Now, you’ve ruined it, you horny bastard-” 

“What’s going on here?”

Victor sagged in relief as King JJ approached the gaggle, eyes flashing icily despite the dark bags underneath. 

“Your slave is a thief,” piped up Lord Giovanni. “He stole someone’s dog.” 

“I didn’t steal her,” Victor cried, desperately. “I found her injured in the gardens, and I’ve been taking care of her. She’s really well trained-”

“Your Majesty,” another lord cooed, “Who are you really going to believe? A slave, or-”

“Where would he have stolen the dog from?” King JJ asked, impatiently. “I’ve heard nothing from the nobles about a missing pet, and he certainly hasn’t left the grounds.”

There was silence. None of the nobles seemed to have an answer to that. Victor didn’t dare to breathe. Why couldn’t he even have a  _ dog _ ? He was so, so lonely, so lonely without-

Tears beaded up in the corners of his eyes. 

“It’s improper for slaves to have pets,” a different noble piped up. “It’ll distract him from his duties. Property can’t own property.” 

JJ turned to Victor, and Victor paled at the intensity of his stare. 

“Victor,” he commanded, “How long have you had this dog?”

“A few days,” Victor murmured, head bowed and eyes on the floor. 

“Hm,” King JJ mused. “I have not noticed any inattentiveness these past few days. I see no reason why he can’t keep the thing.”

_ Makka isn’t a thing _ , Victor thought, angrily. 

“This isn’t like a doll, or a toy,” yet another noble argued. “If, perhaps, there’s something he’s needed for-”

“I’ll be the one calling for him if he’s needed,” King JJ dismissed, a spark of aggravation in his eye. “You’ll do well to stop arguing about what I can or can’t give to my slave.” 

“The council of nobles is invaluable,” that same noble snapped, “If slaves can keep dogs, they may start believing them capable of responsibility, and that may lead to desiring more-”

“ _ I am the king, _ ” JJ shouted, voice sharp like a whip-crack, and Victor flinched, “ _ And I say that Victor can keep the goddamn dog! _ ”

There was a very tense silence. As always, horror pooled in Victor’s gut for the nobles, memories of what disobedience had meant for him etched into faded lines on his skin, a reflexive muscle memory of fear and panic - even if he had trouble remembering, sometimes, what exactly had happened.

It may have been different for free people, for nobles, but this was still the  _ king _ .

After an excruciatingly long moment, Victor noticed one of the nobles’ posture change. He relaxed, mouth pinching into a little smirk, and he bowed, low.

“Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive us.” 

The noble gripping Victor released him, and he swayed a little as his full weight fell back onto his feet. The group walked off, slowly, a few of them sliding their gaze to him as they passed by. 

Victor wondered if he should say something. Should he thank JJ? He wasn’t so naive to think his decision had been a gesture of kindness - the nobles and the king were always using him as a chess piece in whatever silly court games they were playing. 

Still, though. Victor was so, so lonely. Without Yuuri, the days were darker, the nights so much longer. A little, nagging voice in the back of his head taunted him, saying that Yuuri had left him because he was broken and useless. Why would he stay when he’d been swept up in something so much bigger than their little love affair? 

No,  _ no _ . Sinking into that kind of despair was dangerous. Victor had no reason to doubt Yuuri’s love, it hadn’t been that long, only a few weeks-

King JJ stalked off, saying, “Be in court at the usual time.” 

That was that. Victor sighed, scratching Makkachin behind the ears. She whined and pressed her wet nose into his thigh.

Then, he wondered - how  _ had _ she gotten into the palace?

* * *

 

“ _ That’s  _ why Otabek was so certain,” Phichit said, for the fourth time, once they’d arrived safely back at their house. “A show of - fuck, of course. The first time the nobility got  _ any _ taste of the power behind our movement. They thought we’d have maybe a dozen people.” 

“Didn’t you know he was going to do this?”

Phichit nodded his head, wincing. “I tried to talk him out of it,” he admitted. 

Yuuri raised his eyebrows. 

“I - I mean, maybe Celestino would have brought a whole squadron instead of just a few officers, and it wouldn’t be bad to keep quiet how many people we have, so they can’t prepare,” Phichit said, a little defensive. “I would have… I would have planned it more, waited to ensure we had enough people, would have-” he stopped abruptly, sinking to the floor with a sigh. “Waited. And waited, and waited for the perfect moment that never came.”

Yuuri kneeled next to him. “Phichit?” he asked, nervously. 

Phichit gazed up at him, looking very tired. “I was wrong. Damn it,  _ damn _ it.” He buried his head in his hands. “He’s so impulsive. Doesn’t care if people see him. I plan, down to the last detail, but - I’ve got so caught up in planning that I’ve forgotten what it means to act.” 

Yuuri put his hand on Phichit’s shoulder, and Phichit took it, gratefully. 

“It’s not bad to plan,” Yuuri said, softly. “Otabek nearly got himself killed today.”

“I should have supported him,” Phichit sighed. “Not shot him down. Saving his life today wasn’t enough, we need to work  _ together _ . I can’t be so… I can’t be so scared all the time.”

“You don’t need to - wait,” Yuuri paused, eyes widening. “Saved his life?”

“I whistled for Seung-gil to shoot the guard who was going to shoot Otabek,” Phichit said, miserably.

Yuuri blew out a breath. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. “He could have died,” Yuuri breathed. “If Seung-gil was just a few inches to the side…” 

“Seung-gil is a great shot,” Phichit mumbled, unconvincingly. 

Yuuri shook his head, stunned. It was easy to talk about killing the king - he was far away. A concept that seemed so far removed, no matter how closely his policies affected them. A single guard, though, just pieces moving in a game of chess. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit murmured, squeezing Yuuri’s hand, softly. “Will you follow me, for a moment?”

Yuuri blinked, surprised, but he nodded and let Phichit lead him through the back corners of the house, through the servants’ passages, out to a little enclave in the gardens, hidden enough that no one would notice it if they weren’t looking.

There was a box, too, worn and made of a cheap chipped wood. Clearly something Phichit had before he began working with Celestino. 

Phichit pulled a key from a fold in his shirt and unlocked the box, taking a deep, deep breath of the scent of old wood, of something fragrantly floral, like dried jasmine.

He fluttered trembling fingers over a very worn bit of paper, lifted it as tenderly as if it were fine lace, and carefully smoothed out the crumpled edges. The photo was torn on both sides in a way that seemed intentional, a bit of an arm or a bit of a skirt the only indication that other people once inhabited the frame.

Yuuri recognized Phichit immediately, though a much younger version of him. Yuuri would recognize that dimpled smile, the bright, shining eyes anywhere. Holding him on her lap was a woman with the same tan skin and dark hair, the same dimples, the same sharp eyebrows and jawline.

“That’s my mama,” Phichit said, though Yuuri had already guessed as much. Yuuri swallowed around a lump that had appeared in his throat. He didn’t know what happened to her, but had enough awareness to realize it couldn’t have been a happy end. His heart ached.

“How old were you, here?” Yuuri whispered, thickly.

“I don’t remember, exactly,” Phichit said. “Maybe five, or six. This is from when I lived in my… In my home country.”

“Buyeo,” Yuuri supplied, a quick lilt at the end indicating that was a question. “Like Seung-gil?”

Phichit sighed. “I’m not from Buyeo,” he explained. “I’m from Syama.” 

Yuuri blinked. Swallowed, then blinked again.

“Ah,” he said, not quite sure what exactly to say to that. Half a dozen questions popped up in Yuuri’s mind, but they tripped over each other on Yuuri’s tongue, none seeming particularly appropriate to ask first. 

Phichit took a deep breath, staring tenderly at the woman in the picture, finger running along the line of her cheek. 

“We ran,” Phichit explained. “When I was a child.”

Yuuri gulped. Phichit’s gaze was very far away. Then, he blinked, and shook his head, shutting the box with a loud  _ snap _ . 

“I wanted you to know the truth,” Phichit said, forcing his voice back into his neutral tone. “I wanted to finally share this with you. That’s… That’s it. Let’s go back inside.”

“Wait,” Yuuri stammered, “Wait. Why now?”

Phichit looked, for a moment, like he was going to close off, like he always did. Change the subject. He sighed, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and said, “We had this holiday. A celebration of mothers. For a while, they let us practice it, all the little kids presenting their mothers with pretty crowns made of flowers - it’s coming up. It, ah, never really gets cold in Syama, you know.” 

Yuuri nodded, the pretty picture of Phichit’s mother burned into his brain. She looked so much like him, couldn’t have been too much older than Phichit himself when the photo was taken. 

“It was around this time of year that we ran, too,” Phichit continued. “We were so unprepared for how cold it gets here, in the winter, but we survived. My mama could count the stars in our master’s eyes, it hurt her so much to leave.”

Yuuri asked, softly, “So why did you?” 

Phichit’s gaze grew hard, angry. “Mama thought that master might love her. It turned out, it was me he wanted.”

Yuuri gasped, “Phichit-”

“He didn’t,” Phichit continued, quickly. “He didn’t do anything. As soon as mama found out, we ran. She slipped something into his drink to help him sleep, and by the time he woke up, we were on a boat out of Syama.” 

Yuuri let out a low, relieved breath. There wasn’t much he could say, not to that, so he sat there in silence and let his heart hurt. 

“She died on this day, when I was thirteen, just a year after we’d run,” Phichit whispered. “She thought our old master might be forgiving, but when he found us again, on the streets of a slum, he killed her with his own hands, so angry that she’d disobeyed him.”

Tears welled up in Yuuri’s eyes. 

“He’s dead now,” Phichit said, and Yuuri didn’t dare ask how that had happened, “But if he’d… If he’d died earlier, if my mother hadn’t just drugged him, if she’d-” he let out a choked, shuddering breath. “If he’d been killed, he couldn’t have hurt us later. I’d still have my mom.” 

Yuuri saw, in his eyes, that Phichit had convinced himself of this, that nothing would change his mind.

“It wasn’t your fault, Phichit,” Yuuri pleaded. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” Phichit agreed, firmly. “Yuuri, there are no kind masters. There are no kind rulers. You can’t trust anyone to do the right thing without a reason.” 

Yuuri pressed his lips together. Phichit was a light in the darkness, unendingly optimistic - it hurt so much to see him like this, to hear him in pain.

“We’re doing the right thing,” Yuuri assured him, pulling him into a hug.

“You have a reason,” Phichit responded, voice muffled into Yuuri’s shoulder. “You have Victor. I have a reason, I have my past.” Then, eyes flitting towards Celestino’s mansion, he said, “And I have you.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter whaaaaaaaaaaat??? Also, it's a long one (8.7k words o:)! I meant to get this out in early January but well, that didn't happen - so mid-late January it is. I worry things are getting a little repetitive re: scenes with Yuuri and Celestino and Yuuri and Victor - but I think we're finally getting the plot rolling so fingers fucking crossed we get to the Good Stuff within the next few chapters (esp. if they're as long as this one). 
> 
> I'm really not sure when the next chapter will be out, hopefully it'll be less than three months from now lol. I have a better idea of where I'm going now than I did before, so yay! 
> 
> Also lol *casually drops in cultural worldbuilding shhhhh pretend it was there the whole time* 
> 
> As always, tell me what you thought!! I don't mind a bit of concrit so long as I can use it to streamline the story in the future :) Thanks again to all the lovely commenters, you keep me goin!!

There was a whole world of defiance out there that had been scrubbed from Yuuri’s history lessons. In Syama, under the previous king, agricultural workers had taken their reapers and turned them on the overseers. In Novgorod, just recently, mineworkers had refused to take up their pickaxes, barricading the entrance to the mineral mines. 

Even in the capital city of the empire, among the glistening marble pillars and colossi of Venezzia, shipyard workers had refused to bring a ship of slaves to shore - this was more to protest slaves replacing paid labor than an anti-slavery revolt, but it was a jolt to the status quo all the same. 

Of course, the ending to all of these revolts were much the same - in Syama they were outmaneuvered, in Novgorod gunned down without a thought, and in Venezzia the ship was scuttled and all were drowned in the great black bay, sailors and slaves alike. 

“What makes this time different,” Yuuri asked Phichit, “Why do you think we’ll succeed?”

It was a question he must’ve asked half a dozen times by now.  _ Why do you think we’ll win _ ? At this point, he wasn’t really looking for a real answer - he knew, in his heart, that this was truly the only way for him and Victor to be together, he knew things couldn’t stay how they were, he knew, he knew, he knew-

He just needed reassurance that this wouldn’t end in fire and death. And honestly, even as Phichit soothed him, he found it difficult to believe.

“Otabek’s lit some of the ports on fire,” Phichit noted. “Where they bring the slave ships in to dock.”

“Celestino’s furious about that,” Yuuri said. “Apparently, he can’t get his favorite imported berry tea as easily.” 

“Poor Celestino,” Phichit snorted.

“Do you ever feel like we’re missing out?” Yuuri murmured, leaning against Phichit. Midday sunlight streamed in through the library windows. Celestino was napping upstairs, still claiming occasional stomach aches from the day Yuuri had slipped the drugs into his tea - or the day he’d eaten bad fish, as he believed it. 

“Mm?”

“Should we be out there, lighting things on fire like Otabek?”

Phichit snorted. “I think we might get the chance to do that very soon, don’t you worry. For now, staying hidden is best. Then, once the king is dead…” He trailed off. 

Yuuri was sure he had a plan for what was to happen afterwards, but there was some reason he wasn’t sharing it. That was alright, Yuuri thought, and he ran his fingers through Phichit’s soft black hair. 

Phichit flushed, eyes flitting to Yuuri, then away again, shimmering with some unreadable emotion. 

Yuuri missed their easy intimacy. He missed the long, cold winter nights of just last year - Phichit’s smooth skin spread out underneath him, their lips pressed together. Sure, Yuuri had  _ fucked _ before, but he’d never made love in the same way he had with Phichit.

Even if things hadn’t changed so much politically, Yuuri knew he and Phichit couldn’t sleep together again. Not since Yuuri found Victor and they’d rekindled their lost love, a miracle flame blooming back into a roaring fire after that chance encounter at the Ice Castle. He’d never been sure how much their dalliances had meant, to either of them - but he knew he loved Phichit. Loved in a different way than Victor, surely, but he  _ loved _ him. 

Yuuri felt this momentary peace on the edge of a knife, and he wanted to reach out and grab Phichit, hold him close. There was so much going on around him, stirrings of anger in the city, in the colonies - every low rumble and every error made by the king’s inadequacy a spark of light dangerously close to a powder keg. 

Last week, someone had used a secret printing press to distribute pamphlets entitled  _ We Are All Slaves _ \- both an antislavery and an anti monarchy screed. Phichit had picked up a copy and laughed, “Oh, you’ll be meeting the author of this very soon.” 

The nobles - because the king was holed up in his rooms, probably eating sweets - had sent soldiers to every newspaper in town, trying to figure out the source. Yuuri remembered the acrid stench of burning ink, innocent people’s livelihoods up in smoke like the slave ships in the ports because someone had dared to dream of a free press.

“What’s the first thing you want to do,” Yuuri murmured, still stroking Phichit’s hair, “Once we’re a free democracy?” 

Phichit hummed. “I want us to get there first,” he admitted, “Before I start making grand plans.”

Yuuri nodded. He understood, he supposed. When he thought of the future, he imagined him and Victor. Him and Victor and long, slow days, reading by the firelight - just like the first time they’d met.

* * *

 

Yuuri reacted on instinct. Celestino came forward, the sword swinging through the air in a graceful, deadly arc - and Yuuri slid to the ground, kicking sand up and into Celestino’s eyes. 

Celestino howled, swiping at the stinging particles, and Yuuri took the chance to kick him, hard, in the stomach. 

It was a dirty move, but Yuuri hadn’t - he hadn’t even  _ thought _ , the snarling curve of Celestino’s lips, his bared teeth, even during a fencing lesson had driven up a primal fear inside Yuuri. Everything Celestino did these days frightened him, his hand coming up to untangle his long hair reminiscent of how he’d untie his ponytail before bedtime. 

Celestino fell to the ground with an undignified  _ oof _ , and suddenly Yuuri went very cold.

“You cheated,” Celestino hissed.

“I,” Yuuri stammered, “Sorry, I-”

“Save it,” Celestino snarled, picking himself up off the ground. 

The changing room of the complex was very quiet as Yuuri removed his athletic wear, skin prickling and uncomfortable, hands jittery. 

Celestino came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, causing Yuuri to jolt and squeak in surprise. The prickling, uncomfortable feeling in his skin increased, a steady buzz of  _ wrong _ that he couldn’t seem to shake. Warm, wet lips pressed to his bare neck, and Yuuri stiffened immediately. The kissing didn’t stop, and Yuuri wondered, miserably,  _ do you see I’m not enjoying this, or do you not care? _

He wanted Victor, only Victor, he always had - and the one person he’d considered family was the one currently enjoying the pleasure of his company. A wave of nausea washed over him, tears springing to his eyes as the weight of his own isolation clamped down like a vice. 

Phichit - what could Phichit do, now that he’d made his choice? He hadn’t realized, he hadn’t realized what he was getting into-  

“Celestino,” Yuuri said, voice wobbly and wet. “Please, not right now.” 

Celestino wheedled, lips wet and warm against Yuuri’s neck, body a cage pressing him back against the gymnasium bench, “It doesn’t have to be anything too strenuous, I just need you. I’ve been away from you all day.”

“Please,” Yuuri pleaded, trying to squirm out of Celestino’s grip. “Not now, just not now, okay? Later is fine, I just - I’m not feeling well.”

“You’re feeling fine,” Celestino snorted. “You don’t look sick at all.”

“Nauseous,” Yuuri mumbled, squirming a little more.

“You owe me for that dirty move you pulled earlier,” Celestino countered, flipping Yuuri around as though he were a doll and suckling at his neck.

Yuuri yelped, reacted on instinct again - and pushed Celestino away, firmly. 

He sucked in a breath, looking up at Celestino desperately. “Please,” he pleaded, “I’m saying no, just - just this one time.”

Celestino’s gaze turned sharp, flinty, and he pulled back with a frustrated growl. “Fine,” he hissed, “Fine. I understand.”

“You do?” Yuuri squeaked, still stiff and still against the bench.

“Yes,” Celestino snapped, beginning to himself furiously, outside his pants. “You’ll give yourself to everyone but me.” 

The sight of Celestino, half naked and sweating and snarling as he brought himself to hardness, brought a crushing fear over Yuuri.

He stammered, “I don’t-”

“Get out of here if you’re not going to make yourself useful.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Yuuri shook as his gaze flit back and forth from Celestino’s face to his hand. He gathered up his belongings and fled, tears welling up in his eyes.

* * *

 

Victor stumbled and almost fell, catching his balance at the last moment and biting his lip as a sharp, twinging pain blossomed in his ankle, at the base of his spine. 

That snarling mouth, those pox-puckered cheeks - together with the slave, a big hulk of a man with a glare both malicious and pained behind him. 

Victor didn’t dare pause in his movements, the traditional jumps and spins winding their way into his erotic court dance which, naturally, King JJ paid little attention to. He was in a heated argument with a noble, and Victor didn’t dare hope he’d come to his rescue a second time. 

“Ice Prince,” The Count hissed, twitching and agitated. 

Viktor didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He could barely breathe.

Why now, he wondered, why  _ now _ ? He’d already been beaten by Celestino for - for some reason, he didn’t know what, and then there were the nobles who came to him last night, and now there was a tender red gash on his cheek that he’d been forced to say Makkachin gave him, though the poor girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

Victor didn’t pray anymore, had never really prayed - his mama had given up religion long before he was born, he thought - but it seemed some cosmic curse that every bad thing seemed to happen at once.  _ Please let me rest _ , Victor thought, miserable,  _ Just a day - just one day to sleep _ .

“Saw your little blonde friend the other day.”

This time, Victor stumbled as he landed his bad ankle and came crashing to the floor. His heart stuttered, jerked like it was bleeding out into his chest, and thumped a war drumbeat onto his ribcage.

He’d known. He knew this was going to happen - even when he’d thought he’d be with Yuuri, there was still the question of little Yuri. It still hurt, though, worse than his ankle and his back. 

What was the point? Victor thought, miserably. This wasn’t his fault. Stupid, cruel Count, forcing him back into the deepest forests of his mind when he’d only just come out. 

The Count smirked, mouth a cruel gash, “His mouth has softened. In more ways than one.”

Victor bristled, cold terror and white-hot fury coursing through him as he registered the count’s innuendo. 

Hurting Yuri, hurting a  _ child _ \- and mocking Victor for being unable to do anything about it. How evil could a man be, to hurt a child? Fury bubbled from a deep, primal place in his chest-

And evaporated as quickly as it came. He’d been a child, too, even younger than Yuri. It hadn’t mattered, they hadn’t cared how he’d cried, so why would any of that change now? Victor’s lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.

“Why are you telling me this?” He whispered. 

“What did you say?” the Count hissed. 

“Nothing,” Victor mumbled. He brushed away a limp strand of silver hair from his head. At this point, a few stray noblemen had begun to take note of the scene happening on the dias right by the throne. It must have seemed strange - the Count stood fuming, face as red as the sash he wore, indicating his lesser status. Surrounded by a sea of blue, from lighter to the luscious navy of Celestino’s cohort, he stood out.

Victor’s eyes flitted desperately to King JJ, who was still droning on to a noble who had presented a problem, stammering and sweating his way to a semi-coherent answer. 

“I asked what you said,” the Count snapped. 

“I should really continue my dance,” Victor whispered, standing shakily. 

“I’ll destroy him,” the Count growled, and Victor didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. “Slowly. Hurt him like I did the first time. I’ll imagine it’s you the entire time, and after I’ll come back here-”

“Who says they’ll let you back up here again?” Victor hissed, “Who says you’ll ever get to speak to me after today? Look at your sash - I know you don’t belong up here, you  _ pig _ .” 

There was a beat of silence. Victor’s eyes widened, his heart hammered in his chest, fluttering with terror. Where had that come from, he wondered in horror, why had he said that?

“Oh god,” he moaned.

The Count grabbed his arm, face contorted in rage. “I’ll fucking kill you,” he roared. 

Victor flinched and covered his face with his arm, waiting for the blows to fall-

“Count Venitius.”

For the second time, King JJ was standing there, fury written on his tired face. He shook with the force of his anger, fists clenched to a blistered white. 

“It seems,” King JJ snarled, voice low and sharp with venom, “I have a court who feels free to blatantly flout my commands. Count Venitius, what could possibly have driven you to make the step up from your lower floor?” 

The Count quaked. He backed away from the the King, stammering, “I-I…”

“Did you think you could slip up here unnoticed?” King JJ snapped. “That stupid King JJ wouldn’t notice, or would ignore, your  _ treachery _ ?”

“No, your highness,” the Count whispered.

“Drop your sash,” King JJ murmured.

The crowd went silent. A noble without a sash may as well have been a eunuch - stark white robes and no class signifier meant only the deepest humiliation, a lord or a count who had betrayed his rank so thoroughly that the entire court needed to know his shame. 

_ Don’t _ , Victor wanted to plead.  _ Please, please don’t _ . 

Whatever happened to the Count, he’d rain upon the slaves at his command tenfold.  In his mind, he saw Yuri, green eyes full of tears and begging Victor to come back to him because he couldn’t handle his nights alone. Even the slave behind him, much as Victor hated him for all the pain he inflicted in ways the count couldn’t, blanched with fear - and Victor felt a strange pang of sympathy.

“He didn’t mean it,” Victor whispered to King JJ. “He was just… Enthralled by my dancing.”

The Count looked to him in surprise. Victor truly didn’t know whether this would save Yuri from an awful fate, but if he could at least  _ try _ -

“Silence,” King JJ hissed, and Victor dropped his gaze, immediately obedient. “If he disobeys decorum, it’s my right to punish him as I see fit. Count Venitius,  _ drop your sash _ .”

The Count slid the scarlet silk over his head and, with trembling hands, dropped it to the floor by King JJ’s feet. 

“Back to your level, count,” King JJ hissed.

Victor got some measure of amusement, watching the Count waddle back to his rightful position, stark and bare and humiliated before the court. His heart hurt, though - it was likely he’d never know what was to become of little Yuri. Nothing good, he was sure, and there was  _ no way to find out- _

King JJ turned back to the assembled merchants and nobles and slaves, the stepped platforms that so clearly designated rank. Slaves, kneeling next to their masters - unable to stand unless they were sent to fetch something, because that was the signifier of a free man.

“Lord Cialdini,” King JJ shouted, voice echoing throughout the marble chamber. 

Victor followed King JJ’s gaze to a raised stone platform in the far back, where Celestino and the gaggle of nobles including Lord Giovanni stood, rigid. Yuuri was there, eyes owlishly wide and shocked - a contrast to Phichit, calculating, and Celestino, strangely smug. 

“Your Council of Nine is disbanded. I no longer require your advice, and I will only call upon you if need be. You, and your cohort, will turn in your sashes for the ordinarly dark blue of the highest nobility - and be grateful I’m not dismissing you further.”

There was another long, heavy beat of silence. Around the room, guards gripped their guns and bayonets, some shifting towards the king and others - others, moving away, towards the nobles surrounding Celestino.

Then, Celestino bowed, long hair sweeping the edge of the platform railing. 

“Whatever my king commands,” he called back. It almost sounded mocking. 

Victor’s gaze couldn’t leave Yuuri’s face. His eyes sported dark blue-black bags underneath, and exhaustion bent his back. There was an edge to his expression, something less open than the one Victor was so familiar with.

Yuuri turned and their eyes met. Victor saw his expression change to one of deepest longing, his hand jerking forward like he wished he could hold it out to touch the tips of Victor’s fingers. Victor gripped the ring - slid along a leather cord into a necklace, to avoid suspicion - and kissed it, the metal warm from his sweaty palm.

Celestino’s hand twitching broke Victor’s desperate gaze, and he looked up in time to see Celestino notice Yuuri staring at him, to see the flash of anger in his eyes. Then, the anger turned to a smug satisfaction, and he turned to whisper something into Yuuri’s ear. 

There were a few brief moments, where Victor’s eyes flit from Yuuri to Celestino, as the room calmed down steadily. 

Yuuri’s eyes widened in horror as Celestino spoke to him, and his hand flew to his cheek. The same cheek where, mirrored on Victor’s skin, the bright red gash stood out red as Count Venitius’ sash, lying in a humiliating pile on the floor. Victor frowned. Were Celestino, Yuuri, and Victor’s new injuries connected?

Slowly, with a look of pure misery, Yuuri nodded to whatever poison Celestino was whispering in his ears. Then, Yuuri yelped as Celestino grabbed his arm, Victor saw it in the jerking motion and jump of his shoulders. Celestino’s hand on him was wide, splayed out, fingers curled into his skin like talons, as he lead him from the room.

Victor’s heart pounded painfully in his chest as he watched them go, and he remembered Phichit saying, “Celestino isn’t what he seems.”

* * *

 

The meeting was impeccably organized, a well oiled - albeit loud and argumentative - machine. The meetinghouse was an old, dilapidated altar to a goddess whose name Yuuri forgot. A vague memory from his childhood told him it was indoors because of some myth with the wind stealing her spirit - he didn’t remember.

His head hurt, his face tender and sore from the black bruise on his eye, his stomach roiling from Celestino forcing himself on him. Of course, of  _ course _ he’d use Victor against him. He’d thought, Phichit had said-

“I think,” Phichit admitted as they walked, “I might have misjudged Celestino. He’s - I knew he was capable of this, but I didn’t think… He seemed to care for you.”

Yuuri didn’t say anything. His lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I think,” Phichit continued, “I still misjudge people. I don’t think they’re capable of the cruelty they are.”

Yuuri thought of Celestino. Mere months ago, he never would have thought him capable of this, either. Something had changed, his ambition blooming from a spark into an all-consuming fire - Celestino willingly allying with men made rich from the slave trade despite his supposed abhorrence of the practice, all because they would help him reach higher and higher positions of power. 

It hurt, the same man who had wiped his grief-stricken face free of tears now striking it black and blue - taking and taking with the surety of a king, no regard to who he was hurting in his ascent.

“He’s drunk on power,” Yuuri mumbled, staring at the floor.

“He won’t be for long,” Phichit said, fingers tilting Yuuri’s chin upward. It wasn’t to meet his gaze - Yuuri was taller than Phichit - but his gaze came up from his own shuffling feet.

Yuuri took a deep breath and steeled himself for the meeting.

The introductions were quick. No one seemed to doubt Phichit’s new recruit, and Yuuri stammered a quick desire to be helpful to the mission, nodding to those he already knew - Yuuko, Otabek, and Seung-gil. Then, it was right to business.

“The order on the table,” Phichit announced, voice commanding and rich - not the honeyed flattery he used around Celestino, “Is the question of rules and regulations for freed slaves.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Yuuri noticed Otabek and an old man who had introduced himself as Nicolai lean forward with great interest. 

“Of course, the end to slavery and immediate legal citizenship for all freed slaves will be our first order of business once we’ve established democratic rule, but we’ve had some  _ delays _ in laying out our exact order of business,” Phichit’s tone took on a steely note, “But no matter. Today we’ll be accepting proposals for the matter of debt slaves versus slaves in the territories.”

At least five people started talking all at once, and Yuuri flinched at the sudden onslaught of noise, finger pointing, aggression - and excitement.

Yuuri tried to follow along with the ensuing argument and debate, ears perked up for the policies that would allow him and Victor to be together. 

“I’m calling for immediate forgiveness of debts for all citizens enslaved by the government-”

“And what will happen to the money, the economy can’t take any further cuts-”

“The money is going to come from those nobles, who will finally be paying their fair share in taxes -  _ or else _ .”

“Hah, they’ll pay one way or another, won’t they?”

Yuuri wondered briefly what would happen to Celestino, to him. Surely, they didn’t need the gilded furniture, they didn’t need the estate and the country home for just the three of them. His mind wandered, too, to Phichit - Phichit, his friend, so different commanding a room than when it was just the two of them in the quiet of evening. 

“I’m calling for immediate citizenship to all slaves from the territories that have been brought to the mainland, either by force or in secret-” 

“They’ll still drive down the cost of labor, won’t they feel more comfortable going back to their own lands?”

“Why don’t we just give citizenship to  _ all _ slaves in  _ all _ the territories? They’ll be free, and they’ll pay taxes-”

“Pay taxes? Shouldn’t we be paying them reparations for taking them as slaves?”

“Why can’t we do both - they get reparations to give them a boost, then they pay taxes once they get jobs-”

“The kings’ treasury can fund all sorts or opportunities to learn skilled crafts when it’s not hidden in the pockets of the nobility, then we’ll get back-” 

Yuuri thought of Victor. Victor hadn’t been back to his homeland since he was a child, would he want to go back? Did he have a reason to, when he was alone on the mainland with only Yuuri as his family? 

Yuuri blinked. He was Victor’s lover, his friend, his supporter - his family. Victor had the rings, they could get married, legally, once Victor was free-

“If the territories are to remain under our control,” Phichit was saying, “We should make all freed slaves citizens of our nation. Otherwise, it’s just moving from one form of slavery to another.”

There was a chorus of  _ ayes _ . 

“I think,” someone chimed in, “We should provide subsidies to encourage the freed slaves to continue their work, but paid.” 

Victor flashed before Yuuri’s eyes, bruised with red-rimmed eyes and aching back from a long night of  _ labor _ .

“No,” he barked out, guttural and harsh.

There was a pause where Yuuri realized this was the first thing he’d said all meeting. The man who’d spoken glared, eyes narrowing in hostility, obviously expecting him to defend his position.

“I,” Yuuri stammered, “I-” His breath came in short bursts, words swirling and fading in his mind.

“You would demand a pleasure slave return to their brothel?” Phichit jumped in for him, “When their work has utterly traumatized them?”

“Alright,” the same man snapped, exasperated, “Not the pleasure slaves. The laborers, though, why not them?”

“Laborers in the mines work long, backbreaking hours,” Nicolai chimed in. “It’s not - even for pay, those jobs, I wouldn’t wish on anyone.” 

“We - the new government - could pass laws limiting work hours for particularly strenuous jobs?” Yuuko said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. 

That caused a commotion. Yuuri caught words like  _ economy _ and  _ productivity _ in the din, and Phichit banged furiously against his desk to quiet everyone down.

“Even so,” Phichit said, voice carrying over the last stray debaters, “They should have a  _ choice _ .”

“Why don’t,” Yuuri began, wincing as all eyes focused in on him, “Why don’t we set up something - an, I don’t-” He took a deep, shaking breath, trying to make his tongue work as fast as his mind, “An office, of sorts, to help former slaves find new jobs if they want? Out in the territories.” 

“I like that idea,” Yuuko chirped. 

Yuuri’s thoughts flashed to Victor once more, his finger tracing out the letters in the book with such a delicate grace, the language of this strange new country still stilted on his tongue as he read out each word, syllable by syllable. To Victor, tearing up as he read out the word  _ mother _ on the page.

“Teach them to read, too,” Yuuri said, quickly. “Help them re-connect with their families? The king - the king has a lot of gold, we could set aside some of it to set this up.”

Phichit beamed at him. There was a chorus of agreement, and Yuuri sat back in his seat, relieved.

* * *

 

Yuuri didn’t know how long the meeting went on for. Eventually, though, they closed with passing some new resolutions on how to free the slaves - including Yuuri’s idea. He felt the thrill of it thrumming through his veins.

“Yuuri,” Came Yuuko’s melodic voice amongst the clatter of people shuffling out.

“Yuuko,” Yuuri smiled, softly, stopping just short of hugging her. 

She held out a wrapped box, and when Yuuri took it, it was still warm to the touch.

“I made you a rice bowl,” Yuuko smiled. “Probably not as good as your mother’s, but - well, I figured Celestino isn’t cooking anything like this.”

There was a lump in Yuuri’s throat, and he barely managed a quick, “Thank you, Yuuko.” 

Yuuko’s eyes sparkled, warm. She wrapped her arms around Yuuri, pulling him close, and Yuuri inhaled the perfume clinging to her clothes, sweet and floral. He pulled back, though, after a moment, overwhelmed by his unbearably aching heart.

“Thank you,” he said, again, flushing.

“Yuuri,” Yuuko noted, eyes narrowing at his black eye, “That looks nasty - get into any fistfights recently?” 

She’d said it with a light, joking lilt, but Yuuri squeaked and stiffened like he’d been caught, terribly guilty, in the middle of something he shouldn’t be doing.

“Fencing accident,” he offered, knowing it sounded fake and desperate. Yuuko frowned and seemed about to say more, just as Phichit came up behind Yuuri and placed his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Yuuko,” Phichit greeted, coming up behind Yuuri. “Any word from Leo?”

Yuuri tried to hide his relief, gripping Phichit’s hand gratefully.

Yuuko winced and shook her head. 

“No,” She admitted. “He’s been hiding ever since he published his last pamphlet.”

A flash of worry passed over Phichit’s face, quick enough that Yuuri barely caught it, before he plastered on his normal, cheery grin. “Oh well,” he sighed, “I suppose no news is good news, in this case.”

“Definitely,” Yuuko said, gravely. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Thanks, Yuuko,” Phichit nodded. 

Yuuko left the meeting room with a quick pat to Yuuri’s shoulder - Yuuri and Phichit headed back to Celestino.

* * *

 

Makkachin’s low growl woke him, and Victor’s heart seized, a cold jolt swirling in his stomach. 

_ Not again _ , he thought, gripping the sheets in an attempt to be still and silent.  _ Not again _ . 

It had been a few days, but the memory of what they’d done still burned itself into his brain, and Victor sighed and knew he’d just have to wait for a thick white wall to form around this one like the others, locking it away where only his subconscious would reach it at night.

They’d  _ said _ he was beaten for being late to his chores, but he wasn’t later than usual - and Celestino had certainly seemed to take pleasure in bringing the switch down across his back, his thighs. In whispering, “I dare you to tell the king about this,” hot in his ear.

They’d been rougher than usual the night before that, too, and the rope burns were raw and red along his wrists for hours. He hadn’t told King JJ - they’d barely seen each other since the incident in court. His master couldn’t be counted on to protect him, Victor knew - and every disrespect against the nobles meant more fear towards what they would do to Makkachin. To him also, but mostly to Makkachin.

Not again. How often had he thought that? How many days, waking up to the harsh midmorning light and pleading  _ not again _ as he ran through his chores, his choreography. Not again, not again - and did anyone listen? Did he ever dare speak the words out loud? 

The shadow man spoke, kneeling next to Makkachin, “Hey there, now who are you?” 

Warmth blossomed in Victor’s body, invigorating him.

“Yuuri,” Victor cried out, unable to keep the warbling desperation from his tone. “Yuuri,  _ Yuuri- _ ”

“Vitya,” Yuuri breathed. The lamp glowed orange against his face, illuminating it, illuminating Makkachin licking his fingers gleefully. “Who is this lovely creature?” 

Careful not to trip over the dog, Yuuri placed the lamp on a table by Victor’s bedside and cupped his cheeks with such tenderness, as though his skin were rice paper.

“Makkachin,” Victor said, gripping the hand on his cheek. 

“Where on earth did she come from?” Yuuri asked, laughing as Makkachin snuffled at his feet. 

“I have no idea!” Victor laughed. “She was injured, in the garden. No one claimed her, so I - I took her back here.”

“Huh,” Yuuri snorted, “It’s not every day a dog materializes out of nowhere. And they let you keep her?”

“Sort of,” Victor shifted, uncomfortably, “The nobles were very angry - but the king made them let me keep her. It was kind of him. I was… Surprised.”

“Hm,” Yuuri hummed, thoughtfully. His eyes glittered amber in the orange lamplight, his lips pink and so, so kissable. Victor ran his thumb along Yuuri’s hand, kissed his palm - sighed in satisfaction as Yuuri climbed over the bed, body lying draped over him like a protective cloak.

Victor leaned up just a little, and Yuuri kissed him fiercely, Victor’s arms wrapping around Yuuri’s back. 

Makkachin whined by the side of the bed, propped up on her hind legs so as not to be left out, but Victor was drunk on giddy glee and relief at who had come to see him - and barely noticed her nose prodding at his arm. 

It was like a dam opening in his chest, and Victor inhaled, sharply, into the kiss, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Yuuri,” He breathed, voice cracking with emotion, “Yuuri-”

Victor started to cry and found he couldn’t stop, hands clinging to Yuuri’s flowing shirt desperately as he buried his face in Yuuri’s shoulder, body aching as he sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

“Vitya,” Yuuri soothed, voice tense and strained, “Please, don’t cry, i-if you do I’ll-”

Above him, Yuuri let out a muffled sound and buried his face in the crook of Victor’s neck, and suddenly they were both weeping, holding each other so tightly it  _ hurt _ , kissing fiercely so their salty tears mingled on each other’s tongues. 

“I miss you,” Victor sobbed, “I can’t stand being apart from you.”

“I know,” Yuuri cried, breathing thick with tears, “I know, I know. I miss you too.” 

“How much longer?” Victor begged, nuzzling his cheek against Yuuri’s. “Yuuri, please, I can’t-”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri gasped, “I don’t, I don’t-”

Yuuri gripped him, fingers digging into his sore back, kissing up and down his wet cheeks. They lay there like that for a while, Yuuri buried into Victor’s neck, inhaling the stale sweat from his skin. It made him self conscious, but he didn’t have the energy for sweet perfumed oils in the bath anymore - even his hair hung in limp strands along his face. Maybe he thought it would stop people from fucking him - though, it didn’t work.

Maybe it wasn’t about his looks at all. 

“The longer we go on like this,” Victor whispered, “The more unbearable it becomes. I want to become yours, Yuuri, only yours…”

“I can’t stand the thought of them hurting you,” Yuuri responded, “Touching you, when you don’t want them to, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“It was easier,” Victor murmured, “When I didn’t think about it. When I just  _ did _ , and when I think about how wrong it is, and how things could be so much better…”

He trailed off. They’d had this conversation before. It was a constant, chronic ache in his mind, thinking of how he was treated. Roiling anger, sadness, fear… 

They kissed again, every inch of Victor’s body available pressed against Yuuri’s, and Victor daydreamed about kissing Yuuri in the daylight, walking in the park where anyone could see them and they didn’t need to hide. 

Something had shifted for him. For them. Somehow, in between the nobles and the king and the agony of it all, Victor had realized that any outcome that didn’t end with him and Yuuri together was an outcome he’d rather die than live to see - so, what did that mean for him? What could he do, locked up like this?

Makkachin sneezed, loudly, and Victor pulled back from the kiss to laugh, “Oh, Makka.”

A strange, thoughtful look spread over Yuuri’s face. 

“Makkachin,” he murmured. “Makka. Why does that word seem familiar?”

“Mm,” Victor hummed, “I dont-”

A half-remembered moment from their childhood floated to the front of Victor’s memory, and his eyes widened. 

Yuuri seemed to remember it, too, and he said, carefully, “You used to call your pillow Makkachin.”

“It wasn’t my  _ pillow _ , Yuuri,” Victor huffed. “It was a stuffed dog, or a horse, or a soldier, or whatever my imagination could come up with.” 

“Very creative,” Yuuri laughed. “Yes, I - I remember, now. It was nearly as big as your torso, but you couldn’t be parted from it.”

Victor smiled, wistfulness and discomfort mingling as he remembered. “Though,” he said softly, “I liked it better when you let me borrow your toys, and I didn’t have to pretend.” 

Yuuri’s smile turned sad, and he leaned over to rest his forehead against Victor’s. Silence stretched, broken only by the sound of their breathing and Makkachin’s padding footsteps.

“Where does the name come from?” Yuuri asked, not moving away. “Makkachin, I mean.”

“Oh,” Victor laughed, “It means ‘stray dog’ in my mother tongue. Back, oh, this is so long ago - when I was a child, in Novgorod, there were these stray dogs in my village. We’d put out scraps to feed them, and every time I’d see one, I’d call out for it. Makkachin, Makkachin. I loved them, all the dogs.” 

A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed, thickly. A pang of pain struck his heart, physical and intimately painful.

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri murmured as Victor dissolved into sniffles again, wiping his eyes frantically. 

“Sorry,” Victor gasped, trying to steady his breathing, “Sorry, I don’t know why-”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri smiled, sad and encouraging. “Let it out.”

Victor nuzzled into his neck and cried, soft and shallow, until he had the strength to calm down and stare up at Yuuri with wet, watery blue eyes.

“I got something for you,” Yuuri said, trying to change the subject, hoping it would help. “Earlier today. Phichit and I stopped by this strange bookstore, like nothing I’d ever seen - he said you might like this one.” 

He pulled out a thin slip of a book, barely fifty pages long. Victor squinted as he tried to read the title in the darkness, wiping a few stray tears from his cheeks. 

“ _ A Report on Uprisings in the Leroy Era _ ,” Victor said, slowly and deliberately, sounding out the words one by one. It had been awhile since he’d had anything to read - it wasn’t a talent any of his previous clients cared for, and indeed seemed now to be one that would bring him more trouble than good will. 

“Phichit said,” Yuuri began, hesitantly, “That you’ve been isolated for so long that you just… Wouldn’t know. He said they’d do that on purpose, because if you did know, you’d… You’d know not to be afraid of them.” 

Victor blinked, thumbing the pages of the first chapter,  _ Syama Under Siege - Capturing the Capitol Building _ . “Wouldn’t know?” 

“About, um, insurrection. Rebellion. Things like that. I mean,” Yuuri laughed, sheepishly, “I certainly didn’t until recently. They would make sure you couldn’t talk to anyone about it, because if you thought it was impossible, you wouldn’t try, so…” 

Victor smiled, softly, remembering Phichit’s easy confidence. “Yes, he spoke to me about this the last time you were here.” His eyes flit to Yuuri’s and he cupped his cheek, sliding to sit up against the headboard. “I still don’t think I can kill him. The king.” 

“That’s alright,” Yuuri assured him, fond as he brushed away a strand of hair. “He just didn’t want you to lose hope. I don’t, either.” 

Victor flushed, warmth blossoming in his chest. It was so nice to feel cared for again, when it had been so long. Not since Yuuri and Minako, in fact - more than a decade ago. 

“I got you a book, too,” Yuuri continued, reaching into the sack once more. “It’s - I hope you like it?”

Yuuri seemed so unsure, hesitant, that Victor wondered what sort of book it could be. Was it pornography? He’d certainly read his fair share of those - brothels didn’t tend to carry academic texts.

The book was hardback, covered with thick, rich red leather. On the cover was a symbol that played like something at the back of his memory - the text written in a language he hadn’t seen in nearly two decades. 

“Yuuri,” Victor breathed, eyes going wide and blue and teary, “Oh, Yuuri, is this…” 

“I’d never seen Novgoroz before,” Yuuri admitted. “The shopkeeper pointed it out. He said this was a book of fairy-tales and folklore. It was… I’ve seen a few of them translated into the common tongue, but he said this was actually compiled by someone from Novgorod itself.” His voice quieted to barely above a whisper. “The script is beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” Victor whispered, hands and voice trembling as he held the tome to his chest. “This is, oh, Yuuri…”

It was indescribable, the feeling in his chest. It was longing, anguish - but more than that, it was the soft, soothing whisper of his mother, the sweet honey on her breath as she read to him before bed time. It was memories that he could barely form, they were so long ago, snippets of her silver hair and the mole on her chin and her fingers tickling his stomach as she cooed, “Sleep, Vitya, sleep, gather your strength if you ever run into the old tree-witch in the woods.”

If only he could read it. 

“What are, um,” Yuuri stammered, “What are some of your favorites? I was thinking, maybe, you could read them to me?”

Victor’s smile turned sad, and he wiped at his eyes as the memories faded. “Oh Yuuri,” he sighed, “I can’t read this.”

Yuuri blinked. “You mean… Is it, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be painful-”

“No,” Victor laughed, though it ended in a soft sob, “I can’t read Novgoroz.” 

Yuuri’s expression shifted from concern to horror. “I - I thought, surely… I thought.” 

“You taught me to read, Yuuri,” Victor pointed out. “They don’t teach this kind of thing to slaves. You were… You were special, the exception. Without you, I’d be completely illiterate.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri’s voice trembled, his eyes filling with tears, “If I’d known…” 

“It’s alright,” Victor assured him, holding the book close, “It’s alright. Yuuri, this means so much to me, even if I can’t read it. Seeing it, knowing that you got this to help me, I-”

He cuts off, emotion overwhelming him. The book pressed to his chest, he pulled Yuuri to him, wrapping his free arm around Yuuri’s back. 

“I’ll teach you to read it,” Yuuri said, determined. “I’ll find someone who can.”

“I’d like that,” Victor mumbled, nuzzling his cheek into Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’d love to read this to you, to understand it.”

Yuuri nodded. “It’s decided. First thing, we’ll teach you to read this script as well.”

Victor smiled, holding Yuuri, so, so tight. 

Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of Yuuri’s neck, where a smattering of love bites and bruises were barely visible. He hummed, softly, and his lips curled into a frown as he pressed them to Yuuri’s shoulder.

Something was… Off. Maybe the bruises were just a trick of the low lamplight, which cast strange shadows onto Yuuri’s face, almost like the faint outline of a bruise there, as well. Was that? Was there something he was missing? 

“Phichit wishes you well,” Yuuri murmured, breaking Victor out of his thoughts.

“Is he going to come by tonight as well?” Victor asked, running his hands up and down Yuuri’s firm back. His muscles tensed and relaxed, firm from use. 

Yuuri shook his head. “He’s… Busy, at home.”

Victor frowned again, questions about Yuuri’s home life on the tip of his tongue. Suddenly, though, Yuuri kissed him on his chest, where the ring was glinting and gold in the leather chord. He placed his palm over it, his own ring shimmered, still on his finger, even in the syrupy, languid glow of the lamp. 

“I forget, sometimes,” Yuuri mumbled, “So much has happened in my life. You’re the only constant. Everyone else is gone. I forget, sometimes, that I even had a childhood.” 

“I do, too,” Victor admitted. “I don’t know how I survived without you. I think I… I nearly didn’t.” 

Yuuri went quiet, though Victor heard his breath hitch. 

“Yuuri,” Victor murmured. His hands slid downward, barely touching the outside of Yuuri’s pants.

“Victor?” Yuuri squeaked, eyes going very wide. 

A flash of possessiveness washed over Victor, and he kissed Yuuri, suckled the skin of his neck where the faintest outline of the bruise was visible. 

“Please,” Victor murmured, a low heat pooling in his belly. He thought it must be arousal - must be something good. “Please.”

“I’m worried,” Yuuri whimpered as Victor nibbled at the shell of his ear, “I’m worried, I don’t know if this is going to hurt you-”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted,” Victor said, wondering why his eyes filled with tears, wondering why his heart was pounding so painfully in his chest, “And you’re the only one I never get to be with. If you want me-”

“I do,” Yuuri breathed, eyes closed as he nuzzled his nose into Victor’s cheek. 

“If you want me, this, please,” Victor whispered, “Let me do this for you. It would make me so, so happy. Do you want me to do this?” 

“Above all, I want you to be happy,” Yuuri murmured, “I’m just worried.”

“You’ll never hurt me,” Victor said, firm, resolute. “Not like they have. I know - I know you’ll stop, if I want you to.”

Yuuri nodded, determination sparkling in his eyes, and he spread his legs, just a little bit.

Victor’s hands went to his belt, unbuckling it with such reverence that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He stroked him, gently, with practiced ease. Yuuri kissed the small crease between Victor’s eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. 

“Vitya,” Yuuri sighed as Victor stroked him to hardness, thighs trembling as he straddled Victor. 

“Yuuri,” Victor laughed, thumb swirling around the exposed tip of Yuuri’s cock. His hands gripped the base and pumped up and down, building up a steady rhythm, and Yuuri’s little gasps and moans filled the silent room. 

Yuuri came, embarrassingly quick, shuddering and gripping Victor’s hands to stop himself from coming all over the bedsheets and Victor’s chest. He pressed a flurry of little kisses to Victor’s cheeks, his chin, his forehead, face flushed and lips glossy with saliva. It had been so, so long since he’d enjoyed himself like this. 

“Do you want me to touch you too?” Yuuri asked, pressing wet kisses to Victor’s neck. 

Victor froze, like he’d never been asked that before. For all Yuuri knew, he hadn’t been. 

“Not tonight,” Victor admitted, a little sheepishly, “I just - I wanted to see your face. See that I could make you come apart like that.” 

Yuuri smiled. “You should never doubt that you can.”

Makkachin chose that moment to whine and attempt to leap on the bed again, effectively breaking the mood, and reducing Victor and Yuuri into silly little giggles - though Yuuri felt a sudden self consciousness at their observer, dog though she may be. 

Victor stroked along Yuuri’s neck, and Yuuri wondered for a moment if Victor could see the marks the Celestino had left. 

In the cold, quiet of early morning, it was easy to forget that the world was about to go to hell around them. Yuuri shifted so he was cuddled up behind Victor, his legs wrapped around Victor’s waist and his hand clenched around the ring at Victor’s throat.

“I wish you never had to leave,” Victor whispered. 

“I wish that, too,” Yuuri breathed, clinging to Victor with all of his might.

* * *

 

Victor couldn’t sleep much after that. His heart ached with longing, dissatisfaction burned between his legs. He hadn’t wanted Yuuri to touch him, and yet, seeing him flushed and wanting and coming from Victor’s ministrations - it was like a dull throb deep inside him. 

_ When I’m free, _ Victor thought.  _ I’ll let him touch me when I’m free. _

Makkachin whined and scratched at the door, indicating she needed to go out, and Victor extricated himself from his soft blankets and warm thoughts of Yuuri.

They wandered the gardens by full moonlight, silvery slivers illuminating the overgrown paths. Victor found himself wandering towards the edge of the gardens, feet taking him back to the spot where he found Makkachin. 

He hadn’t even thought to wonder, so enthralled as he was with the perfect pet that has just appeared at his feet - if no one in court, and no one who lived within the palace walls, was looking for her or wished to claim her… 

Where did she come from? Certainly, a poodle living surreptitiously on the grounds wouldn’t have gone unnoticed for long. Victor squinted into the shadows around the gilded fence. Beyond it, careful to remain out of sight, he watched a postal worker in the far distance slide thick stacks of mail into the slots, one by one by one. 

What a wonder it must be, he thought, to live right on the edge of the palace gardens, peering in but unable to touch the blooms and weeds inside because of the fence - the same fence that surrounded him and kept him from getting  _ out _ .

Makkachin prodded at the back of his leg, done with her business, and Victor turned to return to his quarters, possibly catch a few, scant moments of sleep before the day truly began. Makkachin didn’t follow, choosing instead to paw at the edge of the fence, tail wagging happily. 

“What is it, girl?” he murmured, scratching her behind the ears. 

Makkachin seemed to be sniffing at a patch of vines, barely obscuring-

Victor’s eyes widened. He could barely catch his breath, and he cleared away the vines to find a large, gaping hole underneath the fence. Sharp edges of metal towered above the hole, one of them splattered with something brown and crusted-

His gaze flit to Makkachin’s injured paw, the fur fully grown over what had been a nasty cut. It would be tight, and he could hurt himself, but Victor knew from looking at it that the hole under the fence was large enough for him to fit through.

_ Yuuri _ . 

Barely thinking, he crouched to the ground and lay, belly flat, staring into the hole and wondering the best way to put himself through it. Could he slide underneath like this? 

Victor slid forward, hair falling in front of his eyes, pressing his shoulder down so that the edge of the fence barely scraped his back. He could go. He could leave, be with Yuuri-

Fear crashed down on him like a sudden shower, and Victor jerked up, cutting himself on the jagged metal.

He cried out and pulled back, his body back entirely in the garden. Makkachin nosed at the cut, oozing blood onto his sleeping robes, and he sighed in defeat, sitting upright again. 

Victor put his feet in the earth, soft and dark between his toes, and experimented with sliding his legs under the fence again, and again, and again. He could leave, right now, run away with Makkachin and never come back - but where did he have to go? Yuuri would take him in, he knew, but Yuuri still lived with Celestino. They’d both be on the run, and if they were caught-

Victor clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowing down the bile and terror that rose up in his throat. 

He sat by the fence, feeling the soil underfoot, thinking of the life he could have. Phichit would want him to go under the fence, he knew. So would Yuuri. They would try to keep him safe. 

His foot peeked out from the other side. In an instant, though, he drew it back, fear loud and sharp like a whip crack as, unbidden, a memory of the taste of blood filled his mouth and nose.

Victor sat beside the fence, staring and staring and staring out into the world of free men. Makkachin whined and pawed at his side as he sat there, stock still. Frozen. Fearful.

_ I need to be brave _ , he thought,  _ be brave for Yuuri.  _

As the sun began to rise, he stood and limped dejectedly back to his room, Makkachin trailing behind him.  

* * *

 

Dawn broke, eerie and cold in the city center. Above, the sky slowly faded from blue to lavender, with little pink puffs of clouds stretching above. Below, fog cloaked three masked travelers, dressed in black, silent as shadows as they gathered in a dark alleyway.

“Is he-”

“ _ There _ .” 

A haggard man with a leather sack yawned as emerged from the courthouse, clicking the door shut behind him, completely unaware of the men lying in wait. 

“Is that-”

“Yes.” Otabek’s dark eyes sparkled, gleaming bright as the gold plated sign,  _ City Courthouse. _ And below, the saying,  _ Justice is Blind _ . “He should have put them in the magistrate’s office. An entire weeks’ report of debtor’s cases, ready to be processed and sent out today.” 

“An entire weeks’ worth of sentences worse than death,” snarled Nicolai, his rough accent curling around the words, “If you get a summons from the courts, you’ve buried yourself in debts so deep, there’s no coming out. Debt-slavery is the only option.”

“But,” Yuuri said, a determined glint in his eye, “They can’t summon you if the record doesn’t exist.” 

Otabek nodded. He didn’t smile, but his expression came close.

“He’s gone,” Nicolai grunted. 

The group slunk forward, careful to keep out of sight as morning light slowly crept over the spires of the tallest buildings. 

Otabek picked the lock, brow furrowed in anger as it clicked, clicked - and the door swung open, revealing a cool, marble inside. 

It didn’t take long for them to find the office, the embossed bronze label gleaming, freshly-polished- 

And on the magistrate’s desk, a stack of letters with the court’s official seal stamped it scarlet wax. Debtors’ summons, printed on the finest paper in the empire.

“This is a nice office,” Otabek whistled, taking in the shining white of the marble floors, the carved mahogany and leather of the desk. He picked up a bottle of a swirling, amber liquid - some form of dark alcohol, rich and expensive. 

An office of a man ready to sentence men, women,  _ children _ to a lifetime of slavery, Yuuri thought - but he understood that Otabek knew the same. 

Yuuri’s neck still tingled where Victor’s lips had touched it, had left soft, wet kisses along its length.  Phichit could keep Celestino asleep, or otherwise occupied, for another few hours. 

He took the crystal bottle just as Otabek gulped down a mouthful and upended it over the desk, over the letters, over the finery and glittering gold-leaf.

“Yes, it is a nice office,” he breathed, noting the matchbook that Nicolai procured from his coat pocket. “Let’s  _ burn it to the ground. _ ”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahhaha hey..... guys........
> 
> have a nice long chapter to make up for my absence :P i don't think there are any particular content warnings aside from you know, the usual... though this is kind of an icky chapter overall. i finally stopped being a tease and added the "angst with a happy ending" tag to make up for it :P
> 
> ive started writing pretty much exclusively in present tense, so going back to this fic was a little tough! i tried to catch all the times i accidentally started writing in present, but if i missed some i'm sorry! let me know if there are any weird tense things you noticed
> 
> thanks for sticking around!! comment if you liked it and i'll see you next chapter!

“You’re so beautiful,” crooned some old man with a fat belly and rich, velvety voice.

Yuri swallowed, playing with his hair in a way that he hoped seemed flirtatious and not anxious, agitated. He finally, after so long, learned to do his own braids with the shimmering little ribbons all throughout – no help from Victor required.

“Thank you,” he murmured, not meeting the man’s gaze.

“You know, you had quite the reputation,” the man continued, laughing and popping a pastry into his mouth. Yuri salivated looking at the sweets, the rich, buttery chocolate, the thick custard-filled shells. He couldn’t take, though – not unless this man allowed him to.

“Mm,” Yuri muttered, disinterested. As if he needed another reminder of how low he’d sunk since Victor was taken from him. Mila did her best, and he felt human again when he spoke to Minami and Guang Hong, but nothing would truly erase seeing how years and years had left Victor a cowering, simpering mess, his true self only barely peeking through the layers of self-protection in the darkest moments of early morning, when everyone else was still and Victor thought no one could see him.

“Before, I’d really entertained the thought of taking you on to see if I could tame you, but ah – I’m an old man, I can’t abide that kind of excitement,” the man laughed. “I’m glad you’ve changed, even if it means I have to pay a pretty penny to see you. I hear you’re worth it, though.”

The man ran his thumb along Yuri’s cheek, and Yuri stared blankly at it. The client, this man, was being entertained in the lobby before taking Yuri to a private room, and Yuri could feel Mila’s eyes boring into his back with frustration and anger. He wanted to turn to her and shout, _what do you want from me? I can’t bear this by myself, you don’t know what it’s like-_

“Shall we?” the man cooed, and Yuri stood, mechanically, putting on the awful blank mask his clients loved but made him shudder with revulsion as he washed it away afterwards.

And then Yuri heard a shout that made his blood run ice cold.

“ _Yuri!”_

The Count, snarling and frothing with rage, his slave ambling in behind him, burst through the front doors with so much force that one of them smacked Yakov and sent him sprawling. It would have been funny had fear not gripped Yuri’s heart with an icy vice, sent bitter bile to the back of his throat.

Yuri swallowed it down, shaking, but he couldn’t stop himself from shrieking as the Count gripped his arm with enough force to bruise and snarled, “You’re mine tonight.”

Yuri remembered, then, remembered those nights when the Count would come through in a frothing rage – though he couldn’t recall him radiating this much fury in his short year at the Ice Castle – how he would grip Victor and drag him away into the darkest recesses of the brothel, how Victor would get this scary blank look on his face as he was dragged away and would come to breakfast the next morning covered in ugly, ragged wounds, unable to walk-

Remembered the one time the Count did have him, and suddenly Yuri was finding it hard to breathe-

“Count Venetius, what a surprise,” laughed the man, his client, seemingly unaffected by the pure unadulterated _rage_ rolling off the Count in waves. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn, I’ve bought this little one for the time being.”

“You,” The Count growled, nostrils flaring, “Count Ignatius. I’m the patron of this place, _I_ get to decide-”

“Mm,” the man, Count Ignatius – Yuri hadn’t bothered to learn his name – teased, “A little birdy told me _you_ had to drop your sash in court today. So, hm, I’m not sure you get to tell anyone what to do right now.”

The Count’s face went a bright, flaming scarlet, his nostrils flared, his teeth showed as he snarled like a rabid beast-

And Count Ignatius just laughed again and tugged Yuri out of the Count’s grip, leading him along a well-lit hallway to the private rooms.

Relief flooded through Yuri, and he couldn’t help but stare up at Count Ignatius with awe and admiration. Count Ignatius winked at him, his cheeks ruddy and his expression jovial, and Yuri thought, _he’ll take care of me, he’ll treat me right, I’ll do anything to show how appreciative I am..._

Then, he caught himself, brought himself out of those awful, desperate thoughts.

 _I need to stay myself,_ he thought, _I can’t wind up like Victor, I can’t, I’m going to get out of here and be with my grandpa and he never had anyone to tell him things could be better-_

Yuri closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t hurt to be nice to this client, he thought, and if he did, maybe he’d let him have a pastry after.

* * *

 

Numbness sent little sparks down Victor’s legs as he sat, maintaining a head-bowed pose on his knees. He’d been kept like this for the better part of four hours, stolen from his bedroom just after nightfall by one of the lords, brought to a dimly lit chamber in the palace far from the King’s rooms.

It was cold, too – cold because the floor sent chills through his legs, cold because he was clothed in nothing but a gauzy lavender robe, wrapped around his waist with a thin chord of silver string, his whole body visible beneath it. They’d brought it for him, knowing all he had in his chambers were the shapeless robes King JJ outfitted him in.

Victor knew King JJ was often bothered by fits of insomnia, and he hoped that in a nighttime wandering, he might make his way here.

His back and legs throbbed and twinged, and Victor tried to disappear into his own head, as he did when he needed to suffer through something painful, uncomfortable. He’d come back when they called him, one of the noble’s needing some sort of entertainment to get through what seemed to be a long, boring, very secretive meeting.

They were whispering, Lord Giovanni, Lord...? Victor didn’t know any of their names. It didn’t matter, really. They were all the same to him.

The door creaked open, and Victor’s gaze snapped up automatically. Lord Cialdini, grinning like a lion before his prey. It made Victor shudder, the sharpness of his gray eyes, the smug glee in his face.

“Celestino, you look good,” one of the nobles joked. “What’s kept you, hm? Been to the dance halls?”

Celestino tossed his glossy brown hair behind his back, and Victor caught sight of a love bite on his collar, just barely visible.

“Now, now,” he snorted, “You know I don’t approve of such places. What do you take me for?”

“You’ve been very happy recently,” a different noble joked, “There are only a few things that can make a man satisfied like you are – sex and alcohol.”

Celestino’s grin turned wolfish, and he grabbed the noble by the collar. “Now, Lord Alessandro, I think you’ll find power can cause quite the same effect.”

The joking stopped.

“Why is that one here,” Celestino said, dismissively, nodding in Victor’s direction. Victor didn’t move, ignoring the sting at Celestino’s words.

“It’s been a long meeting,” said Lord Giovanni, “He’s here to help us relax.”

“Here to tell King JJ everything you say, more like,” Celestino snapped.

“Don’t worry,” piped up Lord Giovanni again, winking shamelessly, “By the end of the night he won’t be able to talk.”

Celestino’s lip curled in disgust, though Victor could see the slight apprehension in the set of his brow. He stayed in position, ignoring the pain in his back, as always, as always.

“Come here, Ice Prince,” someone called, as if to demonstrate. Victor stood silently, though his tingling feet and ankles screamed in protest, keeping his head down.

He dropped to his knees before the noble, crawling under the high wooden table and lifting the robes pooled around the noble’s feet. Celestino was close – he could see his sea-green robes out of the corner of his eye as he took the noble’s cock in his mouth.

They continued their work around him. Victor was so practiced at this – the slow lap of his tongue, using his lips just so – he could practically do it in his sleep. The noble gasped softly as Victor took him deep, almost to his throat. He wasn’t particularly well endowed, so Victor had no trouble with taking the full length of him.

_Not like the Count._

The thought came to Victor unbidden, and he nearly choked as fear spiked through him. _Yuri, is Yuri okay?_

He felt, rather than saw, the strange prickle of someone’s gaze on him. He hadn’t broken his rhythm, he knew. The noble hadn’t noticed his momentary panic, so Victor risked a glance to the right.

A rosy flush bloomed on his cheeks as he noticed Celestino’s gaze on him, on his mouth sucking the noble’s cock. The fear was replaced by a sour rush of humiliation, knowing that Celestino would go home to Yuuri, he’d be with Yuuri and he’d know what Victor was doing and think how Yuuri deserved someone less... Less _used_.

He blinked away, ignoring the feeling, reminding himself that Yuuri knew about all of this, that Yuuri loved him anyway...

“His technique is good,” Celestino murmured, and the noble let out a breathy laugh in response. “I think the one I see is better.”

Victor risked another glance in Celestino’s direction again and was surprised to see his gray eyes staring directly at him, as though he’d meant that for Victor’s ears.

“No way,” the noble gasp-laughed again as Victor lapped up pre-come, “No one’s better than him. That’s what they all say, and I’m certainly impressed. King JJ doesn’t know what he’s, hah, ah-”

The noble’s voice cut out as his cock twitched, and he leaned his head back as he came. Victor swallowed, he always swallowed, and kept his mouth between the noble’s legs until he was completely flaccid.

He pulled away, panting, stomach squirming. A hand carded through his silver locks, rings and jewels catching on limp strands. It felt almost... Dismissive, as though he was being apprised and they were disapproving of the state of him. Before, he’d always cared for his hair, kept it shiny and glossy and long so that he’d be looked on favorably by buyers or clients. They’d be nicer to him the better he looked, but now – what could they do to him?

Victor looked up, surprised to find that the hand in his hair belonged to Celestino. This was another reminder, then, that he and his limp hair and his body were substandard, not worthy of Yuuri-

“Mine is better,” Celestino murmured again. He was staring right at him, like he was hinting at something he wanted Victor to know.

“Hm?” the noble murmured, shifting through his papers.

Celestino didn’t even look at him, instead reaching down to take Victor’s chin in a bruising grip. He slid his thumb along Victor’s cold cheek, wiping away the droplet of come still at the corner of his lip.

Victor swallowed, a sudden spike of fear running through his body.

_Celestino isn’t as he seems._

“Yours?” Victor whispered, voice hoarse.

Celestino’s face split into a toothy grin.

“Imagine if he saw you like this,” Celestino said, softly, poisonously. “You weren’t right for him. This is where you belong.”

Victor said nothing. He swallowed. His back was hurting again.

“Look at you,” Celestino murmured, seizing a fistful of Victor’s hair. His other hand, glittering with golden rings, came up to caress the purpling edge of the bruise on his collarbone, just below the ruffles of his robes.

“Want a turn?” the noble laughed, dropping his own robes back down over his feet. “Careful, we don’t want to tire him out before we’ve finished.”

Celestino shook his head. His fist clenched harder, and tears sprung to Victor’s eyes as Celestino tilted his head upward, a deep discomfort running through Victor’s entire body as their eyes met. He wasn’t supposed to look nobles in the eyes, this was wrong, so wrong-

“I don’t need him,” Celestino hissed at Victor, “I have someone at home.”

“What?” Victor whispered, blinking away the tears of pain, “What do you-”

Celestino tossed him to the side, and he fell, like a rag, to the cold marble floor. Panting, crawling and confused, Victor made his way out from under the table, eyeing the other nobles poring over maps and papers. They ignored him, uncaring of the whole situation – but Celestino’s eyes stayed on him, apprising his half-naked body. Victor colored in shame.

He heard a loud snap, a call for his attention, and he shuddered unconsciously as another noble pointed to him, then beckoned him over.

_I have someone at home._

_Celestino isn’t as he seems_.

Suddenly, something clicked in Victor’s mind.

He realized what Celestino was talking about, laughing straight in Victor’s face, telling him that _he_ had Yuuri, that he deserved him, that he was fucking him-

Celestino couldn’t help but gloat. He needed Victor not just to be put back in his place, but to remind him of what he would never have, while Celestino could just take what he wanted because he was the one with the power here.

Victor’s eyes _burned_ , but he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of Celestino, not in front of everyone here. He was angry, so angry, so unbearably, terribly _angry._

Victor wanted to scream, he wanted to claw at Celestino’s smug face, he wanted to burn the palace to the ground-

Yuuri didn’t… He didn’t want Celestino in that way, right?

Victor played with his hair nervously. He wasn’t caring for himself as he should, maybe Yuuri had noticed, maybe Yuuri really was going to leave him for someone rich-

But no, no, above everything he trusted Yuuri, he knew Yuuri cared about him, he knew he loved him. He had to believe it, because if it wasn’t true, he couldn’t bear to keep on living-

Yuuri didn’t want Celestino, he wanted Victor, but Celestino wanted Yuuri and he had him. That thought was somehow worse – a pulsing, throbbing hollowness in his stomach. The thought of Celestino forcing himself on Yuuri _hurt_ , a physical pain that stole the breath from his lungs.

_Not Yuuri, not Yuuri, please not Yuuri-_

Celestino was engrossed in the meeting, no long staring at Victor. Victor’s nails bit bloody crescent moons into his palms as he tried to calm himself. He was angry, so, so angry-

But what, really, could he do?

* * *

 

Yuri’s stomach rumbled as Count Ignatius waved the tray of pastries away, and his lips curled into a sour frown. He passed the tray over to a domestic slave, who took it and disappeared with barely a sound down the long corridor of pleasure rooms. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri saw the domestic slave steal a chocolate choux pastry and he frowned even harder.

“Here’s a little something extra,” Count Ignatius winked, and he slipped a gold bracelet onto Yuri’s thin wrist. He was so thin the heavy gold nearly slipped off, and he sighed, knowing he had no claim to the jewelry and Yakov would just take it after the night was over.

“Thank you,” he murmured, struggling for genuine.

Count Ignatius brought him back into the lobby, grabbing a last goblet of wine from a silver tray in the hands of another silent, still statue of a slave. Then, he tossed some gold pieces into the hands of the Ganymede statue in the middle of the room and pressed a kiss from his own lips to his fingers to the cold marble of the god.

Yuri remembered, from what seemed like an eternity ago but must’ve only been a few months, Victor taking a punishment just in the rooms to the side, the jeering and laughing and slick sounds of Victor’s body echoing even in the rooms along the hall.

There was someone there now, a tradesman unable to afford a private room, and Yuri swallowed down the thick, painful feeling in his throat. He saw a blonde head with a shock of red dyed into it, he heard the gasps he could pretend were pleasure and not pain, and a shudder ran through him.

“Hey,” called Count Ignatius with a jovial laugh, “He’s all yours.”

A mixture of fear and fury coursed through him – sure enough, when Yuri turned, the Count was ambling towards him, his slave in tow, wiping blood from his fingers onto a cloth. They didn’t care, Yuri realized – it didn’t matter how nice Ignatius was, he didn’t realize the torture the Count was going to put him through, it was funny to him.

Yuri could barely breathe, and he stood frozen in the middle of the lobby.

“No he isn’t,” came a soft voice – and somehow this was even worse than the Count.

He turned again, fury overtaking him as he recognized the soft amber eyes, the jet black hair.

The Count laughed. “Your daddy know you’re here?”

Yuuri winced almost imperceptibly. “None of your business,” he hissed. “It’s not like you’ll be in court to tell him.”

The Count’s face went white. Yuri’s fear didn’t abate – if the Count wanted him, he could have him. Yuuri was lean as a willow tree, he couldn’t take him in a fight-

“You can take him from me, then,” the Count hissed. He reached out-

And Yuuri grabbed his arm. His grip was bruising, his nails digging into the Count’s wrists. The Count tried to pull his arm away, and though Yuuri was jerked forward, his grip didn’t break. He brought his other arm up, thin, strong, _strong_ fingers digging into the Count’s neck.

“Go home, Evander,” Yuuri hissed, as the Count’s face went purple with humiliation, anger, and lack of breath.

Yuri knew, he knew this was just delaying the inevitable. He couldn’t escape the Count forever, no matter how many happy coincidences kept them apart. When it happened, he knew, it would just be worse for the waiting.

The Count left, though, thoroughly humiliated and frothing with rage. He stalked out the doors, perhaps to brutalize someone on the streets outside.

Yuuri nodded to Yuri. “Follow me.”

* * *

 

Yuri was staring. His shoulders were shaking, his blank face just barely unable to mask the white-faced fury simmering beneath.

Yuuri swallowed. He offered, “do you want a pastry?”

Yuri’s whole body shifted, just for a moment, almost unconsciously leaning towards the fresh-baked batch of goodies laid out for Yuuri. He didn’t take, though.

He spit out, “I suppose you’ve given up on Victor, then? Looking for a replacement?”

Pain lanced through Yuuri, a physical jab in his stomach. He flinched, swallowing down his guilt. “That’s not why I’m here,” he whispered.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Yuri spat, “I don’t care what you do. I’ll fucking – I’ll fight you off, I’m not gonna fuck you, you hear me? I’m not scared-” his voice cracked, betraying the lie, “I’m not scared of what they’ll do. I won’t do it!”

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Yuuri responded, putting his hands up placatingly, “I don’t want them to hurt you, I’m not – Victor, he’s – I only ever wanted him.”

“Funny way of showing it, coming here,” Yuri snarled.

“Yuri-”

“He really thought you would save him,” Yuri continued, cruelly. “Up until they took him, he believed in you, and you failed-”

“ _I know_ ,” Yuuri snapped, anger coloring his cheeks. “I know. You think I don’t feel awful about what happened? I couldn’t stop them from taking him away, and I’m so worried every day we’re apart that he’ll stop believing in me, in himself-”

Yuuri clapped his hands over his mouth. He hadn’t meant to yell, to let Yuri know how he was feeling. That wasn’t why he came tonight, spending what little money he had to offer Yuri, a child, some relief.

Yuri looked smug, glad he’d gotten under Yuuri’s skin, and Yuuri sighed. Yuri didn’t know what he was going through, didn’t know what he’d done to fix the mistakes he’d made. He worried, the longer and longer this took, that Victor was going to give up on him.

“Why are you even here?” Yuri hissed, crossing his arms, brows knitting together. “You don’t want to fuck me. Why else would you be here?”

“Surely not for the pleasant conversation,” Yuuri snapped.

Yuri’s cheeks flushed, and he looked down at his hands. Yuuri noted the bitten nails, the bleeding cuticles, and guilt roiled in his stomach.

“Here,” Yuuri murmured, “Here. I brought this for you.”

In his hands was an envelope, and Yuri stared at it suspiciously.

“Um,” Yuuri mumbled, “Um. Can you read?”

Yuri snatched the letter from Yuuri’s hands with a snarl, tearing the delicate paper and snapping, “Of course I can fucking read.”

He buried his nose in the parchment. Yuuri took a pastry and nibbled at it absently, trying to ignore the sting of Yuri’s words once again.

 _He’s hurting_ , he tried to convince himself, _he’s just a child, and he’s hurting, and he’s taking it out on you. You’re an adult, you can ignore him_.

Yuri sniffled. Yuuri’s gaze snapped up, and he caught sight of Yuri’s cheeks bright pink with emotion, green eyes dripping his tears and smearing the messy ink.

It was a letter, from Otabek, which he’d practically begged Yuuri to take to the Ice Castle for him. He’d watched Otabek write it, Nicolai Plisetsky dictating a message to add in with his gruff, accented voice thick with emotion.

“You,” Yuri croaked, wiping his eyes and nose on the back of his sleeve, “You...” Suddenly, he gripped the collar of Yuuri’s shirt, dragging him forward. “You’ve seen Beka? Seen Dedushka?”

Yuuri nodded, awkwardly.

Yuri glared, at odds with the bright tears in his eyes and trembling lips, “How? Why didn’t they bring this to me?”

“Ah,” Yuuri mumbled, “Otabek is in hiding-”

“What?” Yuri screeched, “ _What?_ What did that idiot do now?”

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly. “Ah, he’s... Trying to save you, you know?”

Yuri cocked his head to the side and mumbled, bitterly, “Could have fooled me.”

“He’s been doing... A lot. I can’t talk about it, he might get in trouble, but-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri sniffed. He wiped at his eyes and his mascara and kohl smeared along his cheeks. His smile was soft, fond, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and he swallowed down a fresh round of tears. “What can he do? He’s as poor as I am. You’d need an army to get anyone out of here. _You_ couldn’t do it, and you’re, you know, rich and stuff.”

Yuuri pressed his lips into a thin line, knowing he was pushing it by bringing the letter at all – who knew who was around, listening through the plaster, sitting and watching behind silk curtains in the lobby.

 _The walls have ears_ , Yuuri thought.

“If _you_ couldn’t even get Victor out-”

“ _Yuri_ ,” Yuuri snapped. “Enough.”

Yuri pouted and stared at his hands again, contrite. There was a tremble in his shoulders, a sort of a tremor running through his whole body.

“I said a lot of things to him,” Yuri whispered, “I was mean to him. Now, I – I just want him back.”

Yuuri swallowed, reaching out tentatively to put a comforting hand on Yuri’s shoulder. A spasm seemed to run through Yuri’s body, but he allowed the touch, out of genuine desire or obligation, Yuuri didn’t know.

“I’m sure he understood,” Yuuri said. “It’s hard – awful to be in a place like this, all alone.”

 _Like Victor was, for years and years,_ Yuuri’s mind supplied, unhelpfully.

“I don’t need your pity,” Yuri snapped. “Just... Help him. Help Otabek get me out of here. Please.”

Yuuri bit his lip and nodded. “If you want... I can pass a message on to your family, or to Victor.”

Yuri’s eyes widened. “You’ve... You’ve seen Victor?”

Yuuri winced – he shouldn’t have said that. If word got out… But poor Yuri, having lost his only source of support. If he could offer even the slightest bit of comfort, he should.

Glancing around nervously, he nodded again. “A few times. It’s hard, but I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

“Huh,” Yuri laughed, “I guess you really did like him as more than a bed warmer. Fine. Tell him I’m okay, or as okay as can be expected. And that I’m... I’m sorry, for what I said to him. All those things I said to him. I wish I’d been nicer while I had the chance.”

Yuuri nodded.

“Beka wrote here not to give up,” Yuri said, wiping bitterly at his eyes again, “He told me I’m not alone. He always used to say shit like that to me, we’re stronger together. United. Once, his boss stiffed him on his paycheck, and he didn’t just give up and let it happen. He got a bunch of his boys together to complain.” He laughed, bitterly. “Of course, his boss called the police, and half of them got beat up or sent to jail, but he tried. I hope this _try_ goes better.”

“It will,” Yuuri said, with more conviction than he felt.

“Tell him I miss him. Him and my dedushka. That I love them both, and I’m waiting here.”

“I will,” Yuuri promised. Yuri held out the letter to him, and Yuuri shook his head, “That’s yours – keep it, if it’ll help.”

Yuri laughed, wet and bitter and sad, “You’re so fucking stupid. Yakov takes everything I own, he’ll confiscate this in a heartbeat. And then he’ll know I’ve been in contact with Otabek.”

Yuuri bit back his retort. He bowed his head, sadly, and took the paper back.

“I,” Yuri said, then he looked away, almost embarrassed. His makeup was smeared all around his eyes, his lips. “I’m glad, uh. That you gave me the letter.”

Yuuri nodded, hesitantly. “Be safe, Yuri,” he murmured, “And take a pastry. Please.”

* * *

 

“I fucking hate it,” Yuri complained, “You’re throwing them out? That’s so wasteful, if those stupid overloaded nobles don’t take them, they’ll just go in the trash? Why not give them to us?”

Christophe looked up in surprise, half way through tossing a platter of cream puffs into a tin. He stared at the empty tray Yuri was holding in amusement.

“I’m glad you’re doing your bit to reduce waste,” he teased.

Yuri blanched. “Don’t spread it around, okay? My client let me. I swear.”

“Calm down,” Christophe said, rolling his eyes. “I won’t tell. After all, Victor was sneaking you pastries all the time, and it’s not like I ever told Yakov.” He muttered bitterly, “Especially after he cut my pay. Stupid bastard.”

Yuri blinked. “Victor would... Sneak pastries? Like, even pastries he wasn’t supposed to take?”

Chrisophe laughed. “Oh, yes. He’d risk quite a bit for some chocolate, let me tell you.”

“But he’s... Such a good slave,” Yuri said, still recovering from the shock. “He always did everything for the clients, even the really nasty stuff, but you’re about to tell me he’d risk beatings for some _pastries_?”

“He also hid that ring Yuuri gave him. It was solid gold, too. If Yakov had found it, he would have been beaten half to death. Make that Venetius fellow look like the goddess Aurora,” Christophe shrugged. “The things you do for love, I suppose.”

Yuri thought to Otabek’s letter and a lump filled his throat.

 _The things you do for love_.

* * *

 

Victor yawned. He was so, so tired. The cool stillness of nighttime wrapped around him like a cloak, and he rubbed at his eyes in an effort to stay awake as Lord Giovanni muttered and grumbled to himself at the writing desk in his palace chambers. Unlike Lord Cialdini, he kept an apartment within the palace itself for part of the year – and thus could call upon Victor at all hours of the day and night.

It wasn’t so bad, Victor supposed. He was made to wake himself far earlier here than at the Ice Castle no matter how late they kept him up, but compared to the docks, it was still wonderful. A shiver of fear crawled up his spine as he tamped down the memories of taking clients until the cold dawn light trickled in through cracks in the wooden walls, nights with barely a few hours of rest and mornings of watery porridge, still sticky and aching and trembling from the abuse-

It wasn’t so bad, Victor supposed, willing the thoughts away, to be a pretty decoration in a room, kept quiet and to the side until he was wanted. Lord Giovanni had even let him sit on a couch this time, and the cushions were good for the now constant aches and pains that prickled along his legs and back. His robe lay in a neat pile on the floor, but even bare as he was it was warm and comfortable in the room, pans of coals set beneath the couch and bed cushions by a palace slave earlier that evening.

Lord Giovanni growled, and a thrill of fear coursed through Victor. He hoped he wouldn’t become cruel, ripping into Victor with his nails and teeth. Fat, ringed fingers clenched against Lord Giovanni’s scalp, and he let out a sigh.

“Victor,” he snapped, “Come here.” Then, under his breath, “ _I need a fucking break_.”

Victor swallowed as he made his way over to the writing desk, head bowed. It wasn’t like Lord Giovanni was capable of more cruelty than the Count, right?

As his mind called up memories of the Count’s cruelty, he couldn’t suppress the fearful gasp that flew out of him.

Lord Giovanni whirled around, and he fixed Victor with a piercing stare. Victor gazed fixedly at the floor, hands clasped in front of him.

After a moment, Lord Giovanni let out a snort, and he shoved a stack of papers and books onto the floor. Victor winced, swallowing down his fear as Giovanni stood, gripping him by the hair and tossing him into the desk. The sharp edges bit into his hips and he bit his lip to stop himself from crying out at the pain.

He kept quiet as he felt cold oil dripping from Lord Giovanni’s fingers onto his lower back, felt those slick fingers inside of him. Relief coursed through him – even as Lord Giovanni pressed in with little preparation. It hurt, but not unbearably. It was fine, nothing, he could ignore it.

Fingers curled into his long hair again and pulled his body up, and Victor’s eyes watered at the sharp pain in his scalp. Still, this was nothing. Nothing. He could ignore the pain, ignore the ugly grunting from behind him, let himself go somewhere else while he waited for it to be over.

Then, it was. Victor found himself panting on the floor with a mess between his legs and Lord Giovanni smoothing his own robes down over his thighs.

 _It could be worse_ , Victor thought. He imagined maybe he could even get used to this life-

“What are you waiting for?” Lord Giovanni hissed.

Victor got to his feet, legs wobbly as a newborn foal’s, and was just about to amble back over to the couch when thick, ringed fingers closed around his forearm.

“Where are you going?” Lord Giovanni snapped, pulling Victor so roughly he stumbled and fell to his knees again. “Clean this mess up.”

He waved his hands at the mess of books and papers and trinkets lying in a pile on the floor. Then, he pushed away from the desk roughly, and stalked over to a cabinet to pour himself a glass of thick, amber liqueur. It smelled heady, like honey, a sort of warped sweetness that made Victor’s stomach turn.

They’d give him a shot of whiskey at the docks sometimes, when he needed some courage before going on stage, when he was so tired he could barely feel his feet and begged them to let him sleep.

That had been nearly seven years of his life, and sometimes Victor wondered how it hadn’t killed him. It must have been a sign, the fact that he had survived despite everything they put him through, then he’d seen Yuuri again, it must have meant something, it _must have-_

Victor began silently shifting the papers back together into a neat pile, staring at the letters on the page. He frowned, narrowing his eyes at them – they were letters he recognized, the script familiar, the language Yuuri had taught him in his first master’s library, but the sentences made no sense together.

His gaze flit to Lord Giovanni, but thankfully he was still drinking deeply.

He stacked the books neatly, as well. They were thick and heavily bound, with titles written in gleaming gold. They contained words too complicated for Victor’s mainly colloquial grasp of the language, but Victor enjoyed saying them out loud under his breath. Perhaps he could ask Yuuri if he was pronouncing them correctly.

One of the books was titled _Cage of Desire_ , and Victor flushed. He recognized that one – a tawdry romance about a woman in a rich noble’s harem, who falls for a brave and very well endowed knight riding through the land.

Victor had played her part in a production twice – once at the dockside brothel, which had left him black and blue and unable to walk properly for nearly a week, and once at the Ice Castle, which had left him black and blue but less so than before, so it was better.

“Leave me, Victor,” Lord Giovanni instructed, imperious and a little tipsy. “You’ve outlived your usefulness for tonight.”

Victor nodded, organizing the desk as Lord Giovanni undressed with the help of two domestic slave, appearing as if on cue from the shadows of the room.

A crumpled paper lingered by the foot of the desk. Victor picked it up and smoothed it out, about to put it on the stack – but the paper caught his eye, and he frowned down at a very strange symbol. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, a large diamond shape crossed with lines and half-circles.

He looked up. One of the domestic slaves was eyeing him warily, so he quickly put the paper back with the others. They didn’t know he could read, and Victor thought the less they knew about him, the better. If they found out he’d met with Yuuri, with _Phichit…_

If it came to it, Victor liked to think that he could withstand torture – how different could it be than what he’d suffered before? Still, he didn’t want to invite more pain into his life.

The symbol on the page stayed with him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Lord Giovanni laughed, drunkenly, “The two of you, shoo. Victor, come suck my cock.”

Victor hid his grimace. He crawled onto the plush bed as the domestic slaves closed the heavy curtains around them, caging him in. It was dark, and Victor fumbled around Lord Giovanni’s legs and dressing gown, blind. The thick scent of alcohol washed over him, and Victor fought against the bile rising in his throat.

He grasped Lord Giovanni’s cock and pumped it a few times.

Nothing.

Victor bit his lip, fear pooling in his gut as he tried to bring Lord Giovanni to hardness. What if the lord became angry, as men sometimes did when they were too drunk to fuck him?

What if he put something inside him, fucking him with a bottle or broom or uncaring fingers in a desperate, masculine rage and need to dominate?

Victor took the limp cock in his mouth, tonguing at it desperately. This was so common in those dockside rooms, the clients full of alcohol and burning rage-

Lord Giovanni snored, loudly. Victor pulled off, saliva dripping down his chin. He wiped it away irritably as another rattling snore echoed around the bed. After the momentary irritation, though, came sweet relief as Lord Giovanni slumbered peacefully in his soft bed. He could go home, back to his Makkachin, and get a good night’s sleep until the morning came. The baths would be empty, and he could wash himself clean.

Victor slipped quietly between the curtains and out into the dimly lit room – and nearly screamed in fright at the sight of someone waiting in the shadows.

His eyes narrowed, then widened again as he recognized one of the domestic slaves from earlier – a man, not quite beautiful enough to be a pleasure slave, but with strong arms and rich red hair and soft, warm eyes.

The slave held out a piece of paper. Victor hesitated, briefly, not sure what to do.

“What is this?” he whispered.

The slave hesitated, then opened his mouth. Victor clapped his hands over his mouth as he took in the empty cavern behind yellow teeth, the stump where his tongue should have been.

Tears welled up in Victor’s eyes. He’d seen this happen before, and he choked on his own fear as he remembered watching punishments, beatings and mutilations and tortures.

The slave closed his mouth. His gaze was still soft, but there was an insistent fire in them, in the furrow of his brows. He shook the paper again.

Victor took it.

It was the strange symbol he’d noticed when he was packing up. His eyes widened as he stared at the paper.

“What is this?” he whispered, desperate.

The slave touched his fingers to his lips, regretfully. Victor wanted to beg, to get the man to help him unravel what this meant, but the words stuck in his throat and this slave couldn’t talk or write to puzzle it out. He wondered if the slave knew, but was unable to say. Maybe he was afraid to.

When the silence continued to stretch between them, the slave bowed his head and disappeared through a doorway hidden in the wood paneling. Victor folded the paper carefully. He put his clothes back on and left Lord Giovanni’s chambers.

* * *

 

(They were angry. Victor noticed it quickly, always attuned to tone of voice and body language in a way the nobles never had to be. They were so angry, speaking in low, low voices while Victor wandered the palace grounds from task to task.

He crept closer a few times, catching snippets of conversation.

“What do you mean it’s gone?”

“Where is-”

“He’s messed up, truly, truly-”

“If his stupidity ruins this for all of us-”

As Victor was carrying a plateful of porridge with rich smoked meats and roasted garden vegetables, a hand closed on his shoulder, and he nearly dropped the tray.

Lord Cialdini was there, staring at him with those mocking, twinkling eyes. His lips curled into a smirk – he was nearly as tall as Victor is, but next to him Victor felt diminished. He noticed how he bowed his shoulders, hunched his back to make himself smaller.

His arms trembled with the weight of the food.

“When did you last see Lord Giovanni?” Lord Cialdini crooned, under his breath.

A foreign dignitary eyed them warily for an instant, but he left without a word a moment later.

Perhaps he came from a country with no slavery, perhaps his gut squirmed to see the way they were treated – but rich minerals stolen from Novgorod meant that even countries like that continued to trade with them. The life of a slave, worth less than a package of salts.

Victor wasn’t sure what compelled him to lie – maybe it was the strangeness of the last meeting, maybe it was the paper hidden beneath the floorboards of his room, along with Yuuri’s ring.

“T-the meeting,” he stammered, ducking his head. He fixated on Lord Cialdini’s chin – it was much easier for him to avoid making eye contact when he was on the floor. “Three nights ago.”

Lord Cialdini eyed him, as though he didn’t quite believe it, and Victor knew somehow that the symbol on the paper was somehow important here, that they knew Lord Giovanni had lost it, and it was key to _something_ that Victor couldn’t quite figure out.

He let Victor go, though his eyes followed Victor’s back all the way down the hall.

Victor knew he needed to figure out what’s going on, but he couldn’t do it alone. He just wasn’t not smart enough.

He needed to find Yuuri.)

* * *

 

Victor was motioning for him.

Yuuri blinked. His gaze flit to Celestino quickly, but Celestino was engrossed in an argument with someone beside him. He’d been acting oddly for a week or so now – irritable and distant, as though he couldn’t get his mind off something.

Yuuri didn’t mind so much – it kept him out of Celestino’s bed when Celestino needed the night to pace and mutter angrily in his room. He’d tried to listen in, to weasel his way back into Celestino’s arms, hoping he got some taste of what had him so distracted, but no such luck.

Or, well – it was both lucky and unlucky at the same time. At least Yuuri didn’t need to suck him off.

Maybe someone staring at Victor might mistake his hand gestures for a part of his dance, but Yuuri saw the urgency in his gaze, the subtle way he moved.

Yuuri nodded, barely perceptible, and made his way away from the dais where the nobles sat, muttering briefly, “bathroom.”

Celestino didn’t seem to notice. Yuuri blew out a breath of relief.

He lingered in the hallway, watching slaves wander back and forth, in and out of hidden doors behind tapestries in the stone walls. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Victor emerge from the courtroom, gaze around for a moment. His eyes met Yuuri’s briefly, then he continued to search.

Yuuri swallowed. He had been right – he knew Victor wanted to speak with him.

Victor began to wander down the hallway, stealing a quick glance back.

Yuuri waited. He waited, gazing around as though he too was searching for something, someone – then when Victor was just barely still in sight, he followed.

He just barely managed to catch Victor slipping into a broom closet, and his heart plummeted as he recognized the place where he’d confronted Celestino when he first sold Victor to the king, where he’d first let Celestino touch him-

Yuuri looked left once, then right. Someone was looking in his direction, and he coughed, continuing along quickly until the man turned a corner. Without any more hesitation, he snuck into the broom closet, closing the door behind him.

There was Victor, beautiful as ever even cast in shadow. Yuuri ran over, arms outstretched, and he fell into Victor’s embrace. His skin, so warm and soft, the steady beating of his heart like a lullaby – Yuuri’s fingers grasped at the fabric of Victor’s robes, and tears filled his eyes as he wanted, he wanted so desperately.

“Yuuri,” Victor whispered, voice thick with tears. Then, he was kissing Yuuri, his lips pink and open, his tongue lapping out gently, almost shyly against Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri kissed him back, there in the broom closet, wishing so desperately it _hurt_ that they could be together. He’d never known love like this, he’d felt the pain of separation from Victor once and the scar still throbbed deep inside him like a physical wound.

“Vitya,” Yuuri half-sobbed, still kissing him, wanting to kiss him every day and aching that he could not-

“I need to tell you something,” Victor whispered, pulling away with a deep pain on his face, like he wished they could stay kissing forever. “I think – I think it’s important, I don’t know, though, but I really wanted to ask?”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri soothed, as uncertainty marred Victor’s beautiful face. “It’s alright. What is it? Please, let me help you.”

Victor swallowed. “Do you know what this is?”

Yuuri stared as he held out a piece of paper, obviously crumpled and uncrumpled multiple times. There was something on it, a circular symbol, with what looked like strangely warped letters inside it.

“I found it in Lord Giovanni’s room,” Victor continued. “And everyone is really mad that Lord Giovanni lost it, the nobles, Lord Cialdini and everyone I mean. So it’s probably really important, but I don’t know...”

Yuuri pondered for a moment, “Which one is Lord Giovanni?”

Victor shuddered. Yuuri reached out to grab his shoulder comfortingly, anger coursing through him. If Celestino was letting the nobles hurt Victor, gods, he’d see them all hanged – but how, what could he _do-_

A warm, soft hand grabbed his, and he gazed up to find Victor smiling at him, softly.

“He’s, ah. Heavyset, brown hair, probably middle aged?” Victor mused, “He’s got a birthmark here.”

He pointed to his jawline, right below his ear.

Yuuri lit up. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Yes, him, I… He’s not here today. I just remembered, he’s always with Celestino and the others.”

Victor frowned. “Strange, it’s all so strange, I – I know this can help you, I just don’t know how,” he bit his lip, expression pained, “The only think I can think – what if it’s a code? I mean, what if the symbol means something, but in a language I don’t know, or...”

Yuuri gazed at the paper, and understanding dawned on him. “I think… I think you’re on to something. I think, I mean, it’s been so long but I might remember… It’s not a code, but maybe it can be used to decode messages.”

Victor bit his lip, shrugging helplessly.

There was something tugging at his mind, an answer that floated just barely out of reach. Victor had overheard things Yuuri couldn’t have, he knew the symbol was important, he thought it might be some kind of code-

And then it hit him.

Yuuri gripped Victor’s shoulders more tightly than he intended, and Victor shrank away from the intensity of his gaze.

“Vitya, I think I know what this means,” Yuuri breathed, “It means that they’re communicating in code, Celestino and Horatio – Lord Giovanni,” Yuuri amended at Victor’s confused expression, “and all of the others, they’re sending each other messages in code. It must, oh gods, it must be something really important, we need to find out what they’re saying.”

Victor nodded mutely, lips trembling in fright.

“Do you know anything else?” Yuuri gasped, “Or, did you notice, when you got the paper, maybe there was something else near it?”

“I’m sorry,” Victor gasped, looking stricken, “I’m really sorry, but, I don’t – I got the paper and that’s it.”

“Why did you think to take it?” Yuuri asked, pleadingly.

Victor bit his lip, shaking his head anxiously. “I can’t – it might hurt someone else if I tell you. Please, do you trust me?”

Yuuri nodded, firm. There was no hesitation in his voice when he said, “Always.”

“Here,” Victor breathed, handing the paper over to Yuuri. “Please, take it. You can figure it out, I know you can.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t – I’m not meant for this kind of thing, but I’ll try too. I want – god, I want to help, I want to do anything that will let me be with you...”

Yuuri hugged him fiercely, pulling Victor into his arms and inhaling the sweet orange blossom perfume clinging to his skin, gripping the back of his head gently, careful not to tug on the delicate strands of his silver hair.

They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in each other’s perfumes, listening to each other’s breath. Finally, regretfully, they pulled apart. Yuuri took the paper and slipped it into a pocket in his robes.

He asked, “Do you have a copy?”

Victor nodded. “I drew it the other day. It’s hidden. Yuuri, please keep this hidden.”

“Of course,” Yuuri nodded, determination sparkling in his eyes.

He caught Victor’s gaze and a rush of affection flooded through him, a deep, lovesick longing panging in his heart. He cupped Victor’s cheek, running his thumb along the soft skin, and Victor leaned into it, eyes crinkling with warmth.

“You’re very clever,” Yuuri cooed, “My clever Vitya, figuring out all of this.”

Victor flushed delightfully, looking genuinely happy at the compliment. It was a lovely expression on his face, and Yuuri hoped one day he’d see it every morning, next to him in bed.

Sound echoed from outside the closet, and both of them jumped. Yuuri bit his lip, and he whispered, voice hoarse, “I should… I should ah, probably get back, before Celestino comes looking for me.”

Victor’s entire demeanor changed. His expression froze, contorting into something horrified, and tears sprung to the corners of his eyes.

“Vitya?” Yuuri asked, cautiously, taking Victor’s hand.

“I,” Victor gasped, eyes bright and wet, “I, Yuuri...”

“Vitya,” Yuuri asked, more urgently, “What’s wrong?”

Victor was silent for a long moment, blinking rapidly. Then, he said in a very small voice, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Yuuri froze. He whispered, “Tell you?”

“About,” Victor gasped, “About Celestino. He’s – he’s hurting you, isn’t he?”

The closet was suddenly very, very cold. Yuuri pulled away, shaking his head. “How did you…?”

“He is, then,” Victor cried, “He – he was bragging about it to me, telling me how he got to be with you and I was with some… Some nasty, awful old man who doesn’t care about me-”

“It’s not like that,” Yuuri pleaded, pulse rabbit-quick and heart hammering, “It’s not, I mean-”

“I know,” Victor hissed, tears falling now, “I know you love me, I know you would never go with someone like him, you don’t want this-”

“It’s not like that either, I mean, I don’t want to but I had to,” Yuuri pleaded again, choking back tears himself, “If I didn’t, he would have hurt you worse. He would have locked me in the house, I’d never get to see you, and he’ll hurt you if I don’t-”

“No,” moaned Victor, body curling in on itself in misery, “Yuuri, no...”

“I’ve agreed to everything,” Yuuri said, desperately, voice high-pitched and unnatural even to his own ears. Then, he blanched, his words coming back like a punch in the gut, “but not because I want to! I only want you, but, wait, that’s not what I meant-”

Victor sunk to his knees, hands twisting into his long silver hair, making low, sad noises. Yuuri stood above him, horror struck, unsure what to do, how to comfort him.

When Victor spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, and he said, “It was never supposed to happen to you.”

Yuuri squeaked, “What?”

Victor looked up at him, face red and splotchy from crying. His eyes were deep blue pools of anguish.

“All my life, you’ve been protected from… From this,” Victor whispered. “And I was so happy, because you’d never know what it felt like, and I wanted so much to protect you, when we lived together I’d do anything I could to keep the master away from you, even when I was growing too old for him and he didn’t want me anymore I’d make my voice sound higher, I’d shave all the hair on my body-”

“You were fifteen,” Yuuri blurted out, “How – too old – did… Victor, did he,” he cut himself off, the words sticking in his throat like thick paste, and he took a breath and started again, “It’s not the same, please don’t think – it’s nothing like what’s happened to you.”

Victor shook his head, wiping at his eyes.

“It’s nothing like what happened to you,” Yuuri repeated, more firmly this time, “It’s – you’ve been forced to do so much, this is nothing like that, please don’t be upset. He’s never even fucked me, not really. Fully.”

Victor asked, an edge in his voice, “But you don’t want it.”

Yuuri burst out, shaking his head in denial, “It’s – stop that, you – we don’t have time for this-”

“I can’t do anything for you,” Victor said, softly, cutting him off, “I wanted so badly to keep you safe, at least from _this_. I never could, though, could I? It was stupid, so stupid to think that I could do something to protect you. I’m sorry, Yuuri, I’m so sorry.”

Then, his whole body hitched in a sob, and he curled forward, shoulders shaking.

Yuuri sunk to his knees as well, pulling Victor to him, and he whispered, “It’s not your fault, don’t ever think that. I – I don’t like what’s happening to me. I have no choice. It’s not – it’s not a choice if the other option is you being hurt, or me being hurt.”

The reality of it hit him, painfully, and he sniffled, wetly, as Victor cried against him.

“I never wanted you to go through what I’ve been through,” Victor mumbled into Yuuri’s front, “It hurts, Yuuri, it hurts so much to think of him touching you-”

“I know,” Yuuri soothed, thinking that even with this he’d never truly know the depths of horror in Victor’s life. He pressed his lips to Victor’s cheek, breathed the words into his jawline, “I know, hush now, I’m here, you’re with me-”

After a long, long moment, Yuuri holding Victor on the floor of the closet, Victor calmed, breathing becoming steady as he stopped crying.

Victor calmed, steadily-

And outside the closet, someone started screaming.

Yuuri jumped to his feet. Victor kneeled down, pressing his cheek to the floor to gaze out of the little crack underneath the door.

The sound of running echoed down the stone hallway, and fear clung to Yuuri like a viper. They were going to be found out, Celestino was going to know that he was seeing Victor-

“We need to leave,” Victor hissed, standing up, “Now, before crowds gather.”

The moment was over. They were to be separated again. Yuuri gathered his courage and kissed Victor full on the mouth, taking in as much of him as he could to sustain himself until the next stolen moment.

Victor whispered into his mouth, “Don’t let anyone find the paper.”

Then he slipped out of the closet, bare-footed and silent, and after a shaky breath, Yuuri ran out as well.

In the hallway, there was chaos. Slaves and nobles and counts and lords all clambering together, surrounding a pleasure slave, rapidly wrapping his robes back around his trembling body. Yuuri had already lost sight of Victor, and he quickly fell back into the crowd.

The slave was wailing, incoherent. Someone slapped him, hard, and he fell to the stone floor with the impact of it. Yuuri winced.

“What’s the matter,” hissed King JJ, making his way through the crowd, adjusting the crown irritably. “Why are you crying? Why have you interrupted my court?”

“It’s Lord Giovanni,” the slave sobbed, rubbing the mark on his cheek, “He’s – he’s been murdered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jake peralta voice* guess who just got MURDERED

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you have any comments or constructive criticism! I always love to hear back about what you all thought about the chapter.
> 
> And say hi on [tumblr](https://revampired.tumblr.com)!


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